


Pillars of the World

by vangoghgoboy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Derek Hale, BAMF Stiles, BDSM, Consent is Sexy, Fluff and Angst, Forced Bonding, Hurt Derek Hale, Hurt Stiles Stilinski, Knotting, M/M, Mates, Mates Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Pack Dynamics, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Team Free Will, True Mates, Werewolf Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-04-25 19:06:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 33,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14385183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vangoghgoboy/pseuds/vangoghgoboy
Summary: 28-year old PhD student Stiles Stilinski's life comes crashing down when he presents as a magical being. Thrust into the center of a decades-long civil war, Stiles must learn to navigate a world on the brink of chaos.





	1. I

“Take him, Jonas. It’s the only way,” the woman implored from her makeshift bed of straw and blankets. Even though it had been hours since the labor of bringing the child into this world, her body was still drenched in sweat. Her hair was matted to her face as she struggled to sit up.

“Honey, don’t move. You need to rest,” Jonas said. He knelt next to his wife’s lithe body, sweaty and bloody from the miraculous feat she had accomplished. He held the infant wrapped in an old t-shirt from his bag tightly to his chest and looked from his wife’s tired face into his son’s eyes.

They had known about this moment for months. It was inevitable. Hell, it had taken careful planning, secrecy, and sheer dumb luck to even make it this far. Ever since they discovered the pregnancy, it was always going to lead them here if there was any opportunity of giving their son the chance to survive. When Jonas really thought about it, it all had been over as soon as the stones had been put into play. That was the moment when their world came crashing down.

He glanced around the dingy abandoned barn they had managed to find when it became clear that the labor was beginning. Jonas knew he was only delaying what needed to be done, but he needed a moment. He needed time to let go. He scoffed to himself at the thought. There was no way in hell he’d ever be able to let go of this. To move on. He didn’t believe for a second that being made to forget would erase the pain of this loss for a single second.

“I can’t do this,” he choked out, fighting back the tears. He couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t lose them.

She was standing now, leaning against a wooden beam to support her body. This was the weakest he had ever seen her. She seemed so frail, but within her eyes he knew a storm brewed. She reached out her hand, resting her palm against his cheek. She caressed his face, rubbing her thumb from the along the jawline she knew and loved so well. “You have to do it,” she said slowly, “it’s the only way.”

“We can keep running! We’ve made it this long. We’ll go further underground! I’ll find a way to reach out to Alan, maybe in the Resistance—”

“No, Jonas,” she interrupted. She leveled her eyes the color of dark honey at him, pinning him with her gaze. “I will not raise our son this way. I will not have him live in a world where every moment his life is in danger. I could be found any day. If they find me…If they find me they must never get him. They can’t even know about him. We’ve made it this far. No one can know. You know we can’t go to the Resistance. We’ve been over this, babe. No one can ever know.” She wrapped her arms around his waist, the small body of her son pushed against their chests.

She rested her forehead against her husband’s. Her mate. He had made her whole, and she him. Her heart had been slowly breaking over the last nine months. Even as she grew to love the child growing inside her, she mourned the loss she knew would follow his birth. Glancing down into her son’s face, she saw her own eyes reflected back towards her. They were the color of whiskey; the rich caramel eyes were almost too big for his small squishy face. Eyes brimming with tears, she kissed her son’s forehead; she willed her love, her hopes, and her dreams into that kiss.

“No one can know,” she repeated in a whisper.

“Not even me?,” Jonas asked in a shaky voice, tears streaming down his cheeks.

She looked into his eyes hesitantly, not wanting to see the pain and heartbreak she knew would be there.

“How can you be sure they’ll keep you alive if they find you?” Jonas whispered. Asking the question he had refused to think about for weeks. It felt like giving up. It acknowledged that _they would_ find her. “Wouldn’t it be better to find someone to look after him? Somewhere away from all this, untouched by magic. Then you’d still have a chance.”

She took a deep breath to calm her racing heart. She’d thought about the same thing, but the idea of leaving her son to be raised by humans repulsed her very core. He needed to be protected in case they hadn’t been careful enough. So much depended on him. Looking up into her husband’s face, she gave in to the tears she’d been holding back, “No, Jonas. It has to be you.”

Jonas let out a mirthless laugh. They had already given so much. This was too much. Too far. “Are you sure you’ll be able to pull it off?,” he asked. “Something this big…it will leave you too vulnerable. I can’t…I can’t leave you unprotected.”

She smiled at him then through the tears. He was a good man. He would keep her son safe. “I’ll be okay. They haven’t caught our trail. I’ll have time,” she told him, trying to assuage his worry. “I’m going to have to bind your abilities, Jonas. You’re going to have to appear completely human.”

Jonas looked at his wife sharply, “But how will I keep him safe?” Without abilities, Jonas would have no way of staying ahead of possible danger.

“If anything supernatural threatens either of you, the binding will automatically be undone. You’ll be able to protect him Jonas, even as a human. Appearing as a human will keep you both safe. No one will be looking for a human. I have to take it all Jonas. It’s the only way,” she said. Taking her arms from his waist, she rubbed them across his back and sides, feeling the muscle and strength there. She thought back to happier nights, in barns elsewhere, when she had felt those muscles ripple beneath her fingers as they found pleasure with one another. She wondered for a moment which of them was going to suffer more. She, who was about to lose everything and would likely be taken within a month and face the unspeakable; or him, who would never remember what he had in the first place.

Jonas clutched his son with one arm and wrapped his other around her waist—burying his face into his wife’s hair. “Please,” he choked out through the tears, “leave me with something good to hold onto. I can’t—” He pressed is nose into her neck, breathing in her scent deep into his lungs; filling himself with the essence of her.

She kissed his cheek softly and rubbed her tear stained face across his jaw. Marking him with her scent one last time. “I’ll do my best,” she whispered. She looked down at her son for the last time, stroking his cheek softly. He looked so peaceful. How could he sleep so sweetly while his parent’s world was crashing all around him. She slipped her hand into her pocket, pulling out the necklace with opaque grey stone out—the weight of it so familiar. She squeezed the stone for a moment, hesitating in the decision she had made weeks ago. Could she really send the stone with Jonas? He would never even remember what precious cargo he possessed. But she could not risk it falling into the wrong hands when they finally caught up to her. She knew _they_ already had three of the elementals--she would ensure that they would find no others. Her grip on the stone tightened--the sharp edges of the cut rock stabbing into her palm. She kept squeezing until she felt the pain in her hand from the skin breaking, her blood dripping onto the stone from the cut.

After all that she had put into motion, there was so little left that she could give. But she could do this. She could give them hope. And perhaps, that would be enough.

Hope. Such a dangerous thing to any tyrant who sought to vanquish the soul.

Jonas pulled her body tighter to his, holding onto her like a drowning man grasps a floating raft. “I love you. I love you so fucking much…Promise me, when this is all over that you’ll find us. We’ll be together again. Promise me,” he begged, unable to let go. He didn’t notice his wife slip the necklace into the back pocket of his jeans as he gripped her body.

She tensed. He needed the lie. He needed to be able to believe that this would end. That it would be over. That she would be coming back.

He didn't understand that their death warrants had already been signed, the ink still fresh. But even then, at the very end…she couldn’t give it to him. “I will always find you Jonas. In this life or the next, I will always find you my love,” she choked out as his eyes widened.

 

And then, she kissed his lips.

She poured her will into that kiss, tearing through his memories like a stampede of wild mustangs. Tears streamed down her face as she erased their first meeting. How he had stumbled and flailed, trying to impress her and utterly succeeding unbeknownst to him. She took the memory of that first kiss next to the lake, the moonlight shimmering across the water’s surface. With a cry in her throat she took their first mating and all the others that followed; the heat of it, the need, and the undying devotion. She took from him those few years of bliss they had before the war began. Before the balance was destroyed. Before people started dying. And then she went back further. She took it all. His childhood. His mother. The smell of her cooking peach pie. Learning to control his abilities from his father. His first hunt. Every special moment and quiet memory. She stripped it all away, until nothing of Jonas was left and all that stood before her was an empty canvas ready to be remade.

And then she filled him up.

She thrust new memories into the recesses of his mind, building an entire new world, an entire life. He would become John, she thought, so close to his old name. She selfishly needed to tie him in someway back to her...back to their life and all that they shared. She built his new world. Jonas had been her protector--now he would continue as one for their son. A police officer. Jonas would have been good at that. She gave him a happy childhood. A warm home with human parents--a safe space to rest his head. She gave him memories of meeting her, but she blurred them slightly. _They_ knew what she looked like. If he remembered and was ever under suspicion...it was just better this way. They would meet at a diner. She, a waitress going to school, he, just coming off duty. It would have been late. The night shift. He would have been exhausted from just finishing up a case. He would want pie. She would make him laugh.

She poured into him memories of their growing relationship. Dates. Stolen kisses. Sex in his childhood bed over a Thanksgiving he introduced her to his parents. She gave him a home they lived in together. A garden where she would work. Dancing late at night in the kitchen to the radio. Early mornings with coffee or tea in bed, followed by a passionate round of enjoying each other fully. Then she gave herself a name. _Claudia_.

She’d always thought the name was beautiful. John and Claudia. They had a happy life together. They loved each other. Claudia was pregnant with their first baby. A boy. A boy who would never go by his first name. Names had power and she  **would** protect her son. No, he would have a nickname that he would grow to love. She willed it. John, Claudia, and the boy were happy. And then Claudia got sick. She made it as painless as possible for John. It was quick. Abrupt. There was nothing to be done, but bury her in the ground and take care of their son. She remembered to will the headstone into being, the house, bank accounts, clothing, furniture; the practical things of life that John would need to live this fiction. She pushed the memory of a fire that destroyed all the material memories of her. There would be no clothing, no photographs, no heirlooms to remember her by. Save one.

With a delicate last whisper, she willed John to remember the necklace. To protect it. To ensure that if anything ever happened, it would go to her son.

The child between them cried out, and in that last moment she also willed _something_ that would protect her son when John could not. _Something_ that would be a piece of her that was only for him. _Something_ that could bring him joy. She briefly thought back to the horse her father had gifted her as a child--Old Blue--and the joy and happiness that came from their time together. She didn't know what to give the boy or how it would come into being in this new world she was sending him into, but it would protect him, it would be a part of her, and it would be blue.

Making it into being, she placed a finger on John’s forehead and pushed. And then he and the baby were gone.

 

She stood there for a time, tears falling down into the dirt below. She could still feel the ghost of his warmth. She willed herself to always remember that warmth, that she could always call upon the memory of his body pressing into her own, encasing her in his warmth. She would need that memory if she were to survive long enough for her son to reach his majority, but she would. She would. Without the necklace, it would only be a matter of time before they found her. But she would live long enough for her son to thrive--for hope to survive and take root. Hope. All that she had left was hope. 

Coming back to the present reality, she gathered her things and fled into the night.

  

*****

 

Three weeks later, they caught up to her on the outskirts of Chicago. Her last thought before the blackness set in was of Jonas’s face and the warm bundle of her son’s body pressed to her breast. Even now, with all that she knew was to come, she knew she had done the right thing.


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Character death, detailed description of a panic attack, mentions of addiction, abuse, neglect, and minor violence
> 
> Thank you for the positive feedback! It's been very heartwarming to see people appreciate this fic and read the things you've had to say. I hope you enjoy this chapter. The next installment will be coming soon.

_Twenty-Eight Years Later_

 

Stiles Stilinski stared at the wall his desk rested against. It was covered in a mess of images, names, notecards with his scrawled handwriting, printouts from the internet, and the occasional sticky note. Overlaying all of that was a web of colored strings connecting different pieces together. To an outside observer, it might appear that Stiles had finally lost his marbles and gone into full-on conspiracy mode—all that was missing was a tinfoil hat, but to Stiles the smattering of images, words, and colored string was just his dissertation.

Vaguely aware that sound was still coming from the cell phone he held to his ear, Stiles continued to zone out taking in the different colors and textures of the string that crisscrossed the wall. The edges of his vision blurred while he focused on the strings, needing something to ground his racing heart and the cold sweat that he was just now noticing had taken over his body. The noise in his ear began sounding more frantic, but Stiles continued to ignore it in favor of focusing on the strings. He couldn’t recall why his heart had started beating so loudly in his chest he could practically hear it in his throat. There was a buzzing too, coming from somewhere.

His gaze shifted to his desk. It was littered with books he should have already finished reading, papers he needed to grade, journal articles he had finished highlighting and needed to file away for future use…and was that a pizza box? The buzzing got louder. His eye caught the edge of the picture frame that sat propped up on the corner of his desk, somehow still visible among the everyday mess that accumulated in the life of a graduate student. Some part of him deep in his mind screamed to look away, to not look at the photograph sitting there; the one he saw everyday, watching over him while he worked. He looked anyways.

From somewhere in the room someone was shouting his name, telling him to breath. His mind barely registered the sound as he took in the image of two smiling faces. It was a beautiful day in late-May. They were sitting in great seats at the Mets stadium, both wearing Mets caps with stupid grins on their faces. Stiles was holding a hotdog, his other arm thrown around his father’s shoulders. It had been a good day. Stiles had just found out he’d passed his first comprehensive exams and his dad had gotten tickets to the game to celebrate. They’d laughed so much that afternoon. He couldn’t remember if their team had even won the game. He looked at his dad’s smiling face and felt everything crack all at once.

As his vision started to fade into gray, he noticed that the buzzing was his ragged breathing. His body was shaking and covered in sweat, the vague shouting in his ear was Scott’s voice coming from the cell phone he’d dropped onto the floor at some point. As his knees gave out and he crumpled to the floor, choking on the air he couldn’t get into his lungs quickly enough he registered that he was having a panic attack. He couldn’t remember why and at the moment couldn’t bring himself to care. The entire experience had been like watching it all happen to someone else. Stiles was fine. Stiles was collected and calm. That body writhing on the floor, desperate for oxygen and tears streaming down their cheeks, that was someone else’s problem.

Stiles turned his focus back to the photograph. He could only see part of it from where he was lying on the floor. He allowed his mind to take him back to that warm summer day; the fizzy bubbles of the soda he drank that day tantalizing his tongue, he could smell the hotdog and fresh cut grass of the stadium. As his vision faded to black and he finally lost consciousness he swore he could hear the sound of his father’s laughter.

 

…*…

 

Stiles woke up to a pounding in his head and the feeling of wet sandpaper dragging across his nose. Groggily, he opened his eyes. Alphie, his grey and white cat, was sitting on the floor cuddled up to Stiles’s face. He was purring softly and running his tongue over Stiles’s nose. Between licks, Alphie rubbed his whiskered cheeks against Stiles’s forehead.

              Stiles’s head throbbed and his chest felt tight. He was lying on the floor next to his desk and couldn’t recall how he’d gotten there. He let Alphie continue to groom his face. The cat probably wanted food; he wasn’t usually this affectionate unless he wanted something, the little bastard. Alphie, who’s full name was Lord Alfred Cher Twerk Tennyson the Third, had come into Stiles’s life during his Master’s program. He’d been depressed and feeling isolated while writing his thesis—his doctor had recommended getting a pet. When Stiles had protested that his apartment complex would never allow him to have an animal, the doctor had explained the magic of ‘emotional support animals.’ Apparently, there had been a lot of psychological studies that demonstrated having a pet could help curb a wide variety of mental and emotional neuroses; from anxiety and depression to insomnia and poor self-esteem. Stiles definitely fit the bill, but then again, he didn’t know a single graduate student who didn’t. Armed with a letter from his doctor, Stiles could get a pet to help with his mental state and his apartment complex couldn’t do a damn thing without violating the Americans with Disabilities Act--they couldn't even charge him pet rent. HA! Thank you big government.

             Stiles had gone to the animal shelter the next day. He’d wanted a dog, but knew with his time schedule it wasn’t practical. He’d spent the evening before browsing the shelter’s website and knew that there was a beautiful Siamese kitten available for adoption. All of the cats were housed in a large-barn like shed on the back of the shelter’s property. Most of the cats roamed freely, perching on shelves or playing in boxes and batting toys across the floor—others napped away. As soon as he entered the main room, a small grey and white bundle of fur darted for the door, attempting to escape. One of the volunteers quickly scooped the kitten up and placed him in an open cardboard box before turning to see what Stiles needed.

              The volunteer had quickly located the Siamese kitten and placed the docile bundle in his arms. The Siamese had soft silky fur and beautiful blue eyes. It wasn’t too interested in playing, but seemed content to sit in Stiles’s lap and be petted. Content with his choice, Stiles had informed the volunteer that he intended to adopt her and began heading to the cat house door. The door opened before he had reached it and a young woman entered, the gray and white kitten from earlier again made a beeline for the door. The shelter volunteer again quickly snatched up the kitten with a practiced ease and told the woman she’d be right with her after getting Stiles to the main office to complete his adoption. When the woman saw Stiles holding the Siamese kitten her face broke into a frown and her eyes widened. It quickly became clear that she had also seen the Siamese on the shelter’s website and had come this morning with the purpose of adopting the animal.

              The look on the girl’s face had been heartbreaking. Reluctantly, Stiles had handed over the kitten. Clearly, she needed this one more than he did. As the girl was preparing to leave he glanced at the room to see if any of the other cats and kittens caught his eye. He noticed the gray and white kitten turned escape artist from earlier staring intently at the door, waiting for the woman with the Siamese to step through. Sure enough, as the door opened the small gray and white body dashed for the opening, but this time it was Stiles who snatched the kitten up. The little thing squirmed in his arms, desperate in his attempt to get through the door.

              Stiles turned the kitten in his hands to get a good look at him. Half the fur on his face was missing. Stiles could see what looked like black little dots that seemed to move through the kitten’s fur…fleas. The kitten’s eyes were almost entirely sealed shut, just a hint of green peaking through and looking at Stiles with what he would later swear was contempt. The kitten’s body seemed to run much warmer than the Siamese he had played with early. It was clear the kitten was sick. The shelter volunteer came back to Stiles after escorting the Siamese-stealing woman. She made a move to take the gray and white cat from Stiles’s arms, but he took a step back.

“What about this one?”, Stiles had asked the shelter worker.

She had looked at him sadly, “You don’t want that one honey. I’ll be surprised if he makes it through the end of the week.”

Stiles glanced down at the kitten feeling what he could only describe as protective instincts flaring up when he took in the gray and white body still trying to stealthily squirm out of his grasp. “What’s his story?,” Stiles asked the volunteer.

“He came in a last month with a brother. They were both left in a cardboard box in a dumpster downtown near where all the meth heads hang out. The city workers heard them meowing when they were collecting the trash. We assumed one of the drug addicts dumped them there. The other one was better off and got adopted about three weeks ago. This one’s been sick and we just don’t have the resources to get every cat who comes through here treatment,” she explained. “You don’t want him. He’s really sick and won’t make it much longer.”

Stiles looked down at the kitten again. He had stopped struggling and was allowing Stiles to pet him. The kitten had looked Stiles right in the eyes and Stiles had felt a wave of defiance crash through his soul. For something so small and so sick, this kitten had spunk. It clearly was desperate to escape the cat house overflowing with animals. Paying more attention, Stiles had noticed how unsanitary the place was. Stiles didn’t bother correcting the woman’s unfair assumption about the drug addicts. Just because someone struggled with addiction didn’t mean they would do something so cruel to defenseless animals. Regardless, he felt a kinship with small animal; his own life had been touched by addiction through an alcoholic father—coping with a bottle to handle the death of a wife he could never move on from and a mother Stiles had never known.

              Looking at the kitten again, all Stiles could see was defiance. He couldn’t understand how something so small could communicate emotions so big. The cat exuded a will to live and to get out. Stiles had determined then and there that he may not be able to save the sick kitten, but he would not leave it to die in this cesspool. If this kitten had to die, then it was damn well going to die free and loved.

 

“I’ll take him,” he told the startled volunteer with a finality that brokered no argument from her.

 

The kitten had lived. It took expensive vet bills that forced Stiles to cut out all luxuries from his shoe-string budget, a month and a half of hand-feeding, and sleepless nights where Stiles had held the kitten close with one arm while typing his thesis one-handed (he knew his days of one-handed typing in gay chat rooms as a teenager would one day come in hand. HA!), but it had lived. He’d dubbed his new roommate Lord Alfred Cher Tennyson III, initially. Not that he had any affinity for dead English poets, he just liked the sound of the name. Cher became a necessary middle name because as the cat had gotten better he was basically a bro personified and Stiles determined the animal needed a healthy dose of feminism in his life (no one could accuse him of not raising his children properly). The addition of Twerk came later during a drunken night with friends where Alphie had been playing with a new mouse catnip toy. Every time he would ready himself to pounce, the cat would shake his little rear and tail as he got his feet into position.

 

Five years later, the cat was still kind of a bro and a pain in the ass, but Stiles had been able to forego an alarm clock: the cat woke him up every morning at 6:30 am rubbing his face against Stiles’s own demanding to be fed. Much like he was doing now.

 

“Go away Alphie, you already had breakfast,” Stiles complained sluggishly. With a groan he rolled over onto his back, rubbing his hands against his temple in a vain attempt to get the pounding in his head to stop. Stiles noticed the sunlight in his apartment was coming from the wrong window. Last he remembered, he had been working at his desk this afternoon. His final comprehensive exam was in three weeks. There had been a phone call and then…Stiles couldn’t remember. How was the sun already setting?

              The pounding in his head got louder and Stiles realized that the sound was actually coming from the door of his small studio apartment and not the migraine throbbing around his forehead. He struggled to his feet, supporting his body against the nearest wall he shuffled towards the door. Unlatching both deadbolts and the lock, Stiles dragged the door open squinting into the fading sunset that hit his eyes. A frantic Scott McCall pummeled into him, pulling Stiles into his chest and crushing him in a death-grip hug.

 

“Oh my God, Stiles! You’re alive! Don’t you ever fucking do that to me again. Fuck, Stiles! I thought you were dead,” Scott spoke rapidly. “I could hear the panic attack on the phone, but then the call disconnected and I didn’t…I couldn’t hear your heartbeat! I didn’t know…I didn’t know if you were alive.”

 

Stiles stood stiffly in Scott’s arms, confusion and a prickling of dread creeping around the corners of his mind. “Scotty…”, Stiles finally got out, his brain feeling sluggish and muddled. “Scott, what are you doing here?”

              Scott pulled back from Stiles’s shoulder where he had buried his face looking at Stiles in confusion and worry. Scott’s expression increased Stiles’s confusion. It was a legitimate question. Not that Scott wasn’t always welcome—Stiles always wanted to see his best friend, but with his final comprehensive exam coming up they had instituted a strict no hang out policy until Stiles was finished. Not that the pair saw each other too often anymore anyways. Stiles was deep into his PhD program at University of California Santa Barbara, a good five to six hours (depending on who was driving) from Beacon Hills.

              Scott looked over his friend carefully, worry etched all over his face. “Come on buddy,” Scott told Stiles, “you need to sit down.” Scott guided Stiles over to his crappy futon, the only piece of furniture in the small apartment aside from his bed and desk chair, and gently placed Stiles down. “Sit here, I’m going to get you some water,” he said and made his way over to the familiar kitchenette.

Stiles moving away for grad school had been hard on Scott, but they’d found ways to remain close in spite of Stiles’s insane schedule. Scott came down to Santa Barbara twice a month on the weekends to ensure that Stiles got at least a bit of a social life among all his required reading, teaching, writing, and general angst. Scott was sure there were some weeks that aside from Stiles’s students, the only person he was social with _in person_ was Scott. He’d come down from Beacon Hills armed with frozen pizzas from Stiles’s favorite Beacon Hills restaurant, video games, human-appropriate alcohol, and whatever other junk food he managed to bring with him. Scott was one of the few people Stiles could have normal conversations with. All of his school friends were _school friends_. They always talked about their academic work and research, and as much as Stiles loved being in the Religious Studies department at UCSB and getting to specialize in Folklore and Mythology of the Americas, sometimes it helped to be able to talk with someone about video games. And girls. And guys. And other stupid non-academic shit. The only reason Stiles had the futon he was currently sitting on was that Scott had needed a place to sleep when he visited, Stiles’s full-size bed a little too small for them to share; besides, Stiles liked to hog all the blankets and Scott liked to star-fish out.

Scott brought a glass of water over to Stiles, carefully placing it in his best friend’s hand. “Here, drink this.” Stiles drank from the glass slowly, letting the cool liquid ease down his throat. He hadn’t realized how parched and shaken he was until Scott had given him the drink.

“Dude, not that I don’t want to see you, but what are you doing here? I’ve got that exam coming up and need to study man,” Stiles said.

“Stiles,” Scott said gently, almost like he was trying to comfort one of the scared animals he worked with through his job as a vet technician. “Do you remember me calling you earlier?”

Stiles head pounded from the impending migraine he could tell was going to put him flat on his ass, that feeling of dread prickled on the back of his neck. “I…I vaguely remember a phone call, but…I dunno. Everything is blank.” Stiles could feel the beginnings of a panic attack. “Scotty, what’s going on? I don’t remember this afternoon…I think I might have passed out.”

Scott leaped up from beside Stiles on the futon to grab Stiles’s panic attack supplies from a drawer in the kitchen: a brown paper bag and his prescription of Xanax. Scott handed the bag to Stiles and took out one of the pills. “Here,” he handed the pill to Stiles, “take this, now.”

Stiles took the pill, swallowing it with the last of his water. The sour last of the little blue pill staying in his mouth as he felt his heart rate increase and his breaths becoming shallower. It would take ten minutes for the pill to reach his system and bring a blissful calm all over his body. He reached for the paperbag and brought it to his mouth, breathing into it and trying to slow down his breathing.

Scott crouched in front of him, his eyes flashing yellow with worry. “Stiles, look at me. We’re going to breathe together. Follow my count buddy. You can do this,” Scott instructed him. Stiles latched onto Scott’s voice, listening to him count: one-two-three-in, four-five-six-out, one-two-three-in, four-five-six-out, one-two-three-in, four-five-six-out. The familiar mantra was comforting and Stiles lost himself in the words and the feel of Scott’s hand on his forearm until the effects of the Xanax started kicking in; bringing a wave of tingly-feel goodness that washed over his body, starting in his toes and running up the rest of his body.

Stiles lowered the bag from his face, looked at Scott and mumbled his thanks. His body felt exhausted. The migraine was definitely coming on quickly and his muscles felt so strung out and sore. He definitely wouldn’t be keeping up with his weight lifting schedule this week. He looked at his friend, waiting for an explanation. That feeling of dread that he couldn’t explain was oppressive now. Even with the Xanax coursing through his system if felt like a weight on his chest. The futon shifted slightly as Alphie jumped up onto Stiles’s lap, circling three times before laying down in a ball, the cat’s head tucked into Stiles’s stomach.

 

“Stiles…”, Scott began. “I called you earlier to let you know…you started having a panic attack. I think you dropped the phone and the call got disconnected. It sounded like a bad one and you didn’t answer any of my calls. I…I was going to head down here anyways to be with you, but I couldn’t get a hold of you again and I didn’t know anyone down here to call to check on you. I drove as fast as I could—”

“Scott,” Stiles interrupted. “What…what happened? Why did you need to come down here?”

Scott looked at Stiles with eyes full of heartbreak. “Stiles…”, Scott began again. “Stiles…your dad. He had a stroke…he’s in the hospital. The doctor’s said he had it a few days ago, but nobody found him until this morning. My mom…my mom went to go check on him and called an ambulance. Stiles…it doesn’t look very good. You…you need to come home, Stiles.”

 

Stiles felt that wave of dread crashing over his body. With perfect clarity he recalled Scott’s earlier phone call, his shock and nausea. The panic attack that had immediately consumed his body as he looked at the photograph of he and his father at a Mets game from last summer. Stiles knew he hadn’t had a panic attack that bad since he was 11 or 12. The Xanax in his system and Scott’s steady hands on his shoulders kept the current one trying to climb up his throat from his stomach at bay.

              “How bad?”, Stiles whispered. He hadn’t always had the best relationship with his father. John Stilinski hadn’t been much more than a drunk for most of Stiles’s childhood. It wasn’t until he was 14-years old that he’d gotten and stayed sober, getting elected Sheriff had been good for him. It took years after that for Stiles to begin trusting his father, learning to heal, and letting him into his life. Stiles left Beacon Hills at 18, off to UC-Berkeley for undergrad. It was far enough away that he could get the college experience he wanted, but close enough that he could be there for his dad and still do what he could to take care of him. It wasn’t until his Master’s program that Stiles and his father had gotten really close. Those two years spent in Illinois so far removed from all the people he knew had driven Stiles and his father closer together. There had been Skype chats multiple times a week and weekend trips in Chicago every few months. They’d finally started to feel like a family unit and Stiles had relished in it. When Stiles had moved back to California for his PhD, he’d chosen a school purposefully near his father and Scott. He wanted to be closer to his family and needed them around him.

              Stiles looked at Scott waiting for an answer. He belatedly remembered that he had just spoken to his dad two days ago. They had made plans for when Stiles finally finished his comprehensive exams in three weeks. His dad had wanted to take Stiles on a cruise to Mexico. Scott was going to come too.

              “Stiles…”, Scott said hesitantly. “It’s bad. I don’t know the details, but my mom could give them to you. We need to get you up there. I’ll help you pack. What do you need to take with you?”

Stiles’s mind went blank. He could feel a steely calmness envelope his body, giving into the numbness. “Just some clothes and Alphie’s things,” he told his friend. Trying desperately to put his mind off of his father’s condition until he was closer to Beacon Hills and could do something about it, he told Scott that he’d need to clean out Alphie’s litter box before they left. Stiles didn’t want it stinking up the car on the drive ahead.

 

…*…

 

It was worse than Scott had said. The Sheriff was on life support; the stroke leaving him brain dead with little hope of recovery. The doctor’s informed Stiles of his options while Melissa McCall stood next to him, holding his hand tightly and asking all of the questions Stiles couldn’t get his tongue to form. Scott stood on his other side, arm protectively thrown over his friend’s shoulder. The two McCalls doing their best to shield him from the world.

              The doctors had even contacted the Bureau of Magical Activities and Creatures, bringing a druid doctor out to see if anything could be done. Sheriff Stilinski’s exemplary service to Beacon Hills’s supernatural community enough of an incentive to draw the attention of magic folk. The druid had been not been able to do anything. Giving the Sheriff the bite of a were was discussed, but the druid had explained that there was nothing left of John Stilinski for the bite to take hold of. The man was gone. There was nothing left to do, but leave the machines running—keeping his body alive until his only son could be retrieved.

              In some ways, Stiles thought that keeping him on life support had been the crueler option. John Stilinski never would have wanted it and now the burden of pulling the plug and killing him was left on his son’s shoulders. Stiles chastised himself for being so unprepared for this moment. He needed to do this for his dad, the man deserved not to be left as a rotting vegetable. Stiles would do what was needed. He knew he should have anticipated that all those years of heavy drinking, little sleep, overworking, and a poor diet would eventually catch up with the man, but Stiles still felt blindsided. He wondered if he had tried harder has a kid and then a teenager, if his dad wouldn’t be lying in that hospital bed. Stiles had taught himself to cook at a young age, his dad either too busy with work or too far down the bottle to care what he was eating. If he had had his way, John Stilinski would have eaten take out every night, but his son had pushed back. Maybe if Stiles had made sure his dad ate those brussels sprouts more often or hidden the whiskey better this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe, if after John had sobered up and desperately tried to repair the damage he’d done to his relationship with his son, Stiles could have let him in sooner. Forgiven him more. Maybe then he wouldn’t have had as much stress and his body wouldn’t have given out.

              In this final moment, Stiles was consumed with regret. He wished he’d let his father know more how much he loved him, respected him, and thought of him as a hero. John Stilinski had climbed his way out of the bottle, he’d put his life together, and fought hard for the people he loved and the things he believed in. Stiles respected that. Even as a kid, even with drinking and the absence of things he saw other fathers do on TV, Stiles had loved his dad. His dad was hero. He had to protect everyone in town. Stiles had convinced himself that it was okay if he missed out on a few things other kids took for granted, because it meant that people were safer. He didn’t mind making sure the house was taken care of and doing his best to care for his father after he’d passed out from too much drinking, if it meant that he could help his father be that hero. Besides, Scott didn’t have a mom and a dad either, his parents were divorced, AND he was a werewolf. Fuck normality.

              When Stiles had gotten older, moved away to college and gotten a little distance, he found it easier to forgive his dad. He understood the drinking. His dad needed to forget. Stiles had no memories of his mother. He was still affected by it, he still had felt her loss every time other kids’ mothers would bring cupcakes in for the class on their birthdays or at Parent Teacher Conferences when his dad couldn’t get it off work so he and Melissa rotated who went and acted as stand-in parent for Stiles and Scott. But his dad had the memories of Claudia and their life. Despite Stiles and Scott’s hope that his dad might fall for Scott’s mom, then they could be REAL brothers, the Sheriff had never moved on. Never dated or brought a lover into the house as far as Stiles knew.

              There wasn’t anything for it now though. Now…now decisions had to be made. Stiles walked away from Melissa and Scott who were still talking with the doctor. He went into the room where his dad lay on the hospital bed, connected to the machines that beeped and whirled keeping him alive. He pulled up a chair next to the side of the bed and sat down, holding his father’s hand with both of his own. He stroked the back of his father’s hand and just talked. He rambled on about how his research was going, the new taco place he had tried last week, and his latest drama with his overbearing advisor. He talked on and on, eventually switching to reminiscing about memories; camping trips at Yosemite in his early-20s, freezing their asses off in Chicago when his dad made a visit during the dead of winter, the trip to Comicon his dad had surprised him with for his 25th birthday.

              Eventually the confessions and regrets came pouring out of him. The time he’d stolen twenty bucks so he and Scott could go to the movies and his dad never found out; he thought he’d spent the money on booze and Stiles never bothered to correct him. He told his dad how much he wished he’d never gone to grad school—wished that he’d come back to Beacon Hills so he could have taken care of him and so they could have spent more time with each other. He told him how much he loved him. How proud he was, that he wished he had told his dad more often. He talked for hours only vaguely aware of Scott and Melissa sitting next to him, not ashamed of them overhearing.

              When his voice had finally grown too hoarse to talk anymore and the tears dried up and nothing else could fall, he stood up and kissed his father on the forehead, wrapping his arms around the man who had been his rock for all of his adult life as much as the machines would allow.

 

He kissed his dad again and then whispered into his ear, “I love you dad. I love you so much. I’ve got to let you go now. I don’t want to, but you wouldn’t want to stick around here. You would want me to do this. So I’m going to let you go now. Watch over me, okay? I need you daddy. I need you to watch over me, okay? You’re my family. I’ve got Scott and Melissa. And who knows, maybe you can convince some guardian angel up there to nudge someone in my direction.” Stiles choked out a bit of a laugh. “I love you dad. You did good. Thank you. That’s all I can really say. Thank you for making me the man I am today. I owe you so fucking much. I love you.” Stiles paused for a moment. “You’ve got to go. Go find her dad. Find her and be happy. I love you. Tell her I love her too,” he whispered.

Stiles kissed his dad’s forehead one last time and asked Melissa to get the doctor. When the man came in, Stiles asked him to do what needed to be done then quietly exited the room as whirring and beeping of the machines stopped. He rolled his shoulders back, put his face stubbornly up straight, and walked out of the hospital. The tears on his face mixing in with the light rain storm as he walked to home.

 

…*…

 

The next few days were a blur for Stiles. The numbness was a near constant. There were whispers of funeral arrangements, his dad’s pension, the remaining mortgage on the house, and the cacophony of ‘I’m so sorry of your loss,’. His dad didn’t have much in savings. The payout from his pension and what he had squirreled away for retirement would cover the costs of the funeral and pay off what was left on the house. Even with the mortgage gone, Stiles wouldn’t be able to afford the property taxes. He was a grad student, his income was laughable. He could try renting the place out, but he wasn’t sure if he would want to move back to Beacon Hills when he finished his PhD. Scott was here and a few other friends he’d grown up with, but it might do him some good to move on, sell the house, and get back to Santa Barbara. He could throw himself into his schoolwork and try to heal.

The day before the funeral the manager of the bank where his father kept his accounts called. Stiles needed to come into the bank, sign some paperwork to receive the deed of the house and close out his father’s safety security box. The paperwork had been painless. Just a few dotted lines to fill in and more ‘I’m sorry for your loss’es than Stiles could stand. The safety deposit box held a copy of his dad’s will that Stiles had already seen a few days earlier in the lawyer’s office, birth certificates, social security cards, some other personal effects, and a beautiful black box.

Stiles picked up the box, slipping the latch open with a finger. The box was light and couldn’t contain much—the object fitting in the palm of his hand. Stiles lifted the lid and looked inside. The interior was a plush looking black velvet and only contained a single item: a necklace. It had a long silver chain connected to an opaque stone about the size of his thumb, it was a milky gray color. Stiles’s addled brain provided its name from one of the mythology courses he TA’d for two years ago when the professor had discussed different gems that were precious to different cultures in the Americas. This was a moonstone. Stiles vaguely recalled seeing his father fiddle with a chain and stone like this when he was younger, usually after the man had had a few drinks. He’d asked him about it once, and his dad had only replied that it had belonged to his mother.

For a piece of jewelry, it was quite beautiful. It wasn’t very ornate and read as being fairly gender neutral. Stiles could see himself wearing it underneath his shirt in the future. It might feel nice to have an object belonging to his mother so close to his chest, making him feel connected to her. Stiles reached his hand into the box to pull the necklace out intending to wear it under his many layers of clothing out of the bank; he could use some of that closeness now. When his fingers came in contact with the stone a burst of warmth shot threw his fingers and spread across his hand, up his arm, and filled his entire body. It was subtle, but still a bit startling—like unexpectedly shocking yourself with static electricity. For a moment, Stiles could have sworn that the stone glowed softly, but he wrote it off as the flickering fluorescent lighting in the bank’s vault. He put the necklace around his neck, slipping the stone beneath his shirt where it lay against the center of his chest. He put the black box and all the paperwork from the safety deposit box into the bag he had brought with him into the bank and left the vault. With one more ‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ Stiles exited the bank, climbed into his jeep, and headed home to prepare for the funeral.

 

…*…

 

The funeral was a somber affair. Stiles recognized a lot of the local townspeople, his father’s deputies and their families, and even some members of the City Council. The service was simple. John Stilinski would be laid to rest in the Beacon Hills Cemetery next to the plot holding Claudia Stilinski’s headstone. Stiles was glad for the brevity of the ceremony. He’d woken up this morning with aches and an itchiness that clawed beneath his skin. He had wondered if he could be allergic to silver in his mother’s necklace he’d worn to bed. He knew of people who were allergic to nickel and other kinds of metal. If the silver ended up being the cause, he’d have to have the stone reset in some other metal that his skin found less irritating. He’d put the necklace back in its box and left it on the desk in his dad’s office, promising to look into a silver allergy later and to catch up on his missed sleep the past few nights.

              Stiles sat at the front of the service near the mahogany coffin, Melissa and Scott on either side of him. As the casket was lowered into the ground and those attending the funeral began dropping flowers into the grave to later be covered by dirt, Stiles felt the achiness in his body increase and the beginnings of a fever. ‘Fuck,’ he swore to himself. He did not have time to get sick right now. There was too much to take care of with the house and he needed to get back to Santa Barbara eventually. His advisor would not allow him to skip out on school for forever, death of a parent or no. He was exhausted physically, mentally, and emotionally. He’d spent the better part of the last few days crying and trying to get his dad’s affairs in order. He’d missed out on a lot of sleep and hadn’t been eating very consistently. It was no wonder he was getting sick. He promised himself he would make Scott stop and pick up orange juice on their way back to Melissa’s for food and a gathering of those who wanted to honor the former Sheriff’s life. He added a full night’s rest to that promise, then silently changed that to a full six hours (what? he had a lot to do) and willed his growing fever to go away.

              As funeral attendees continued dispersing, and dropping flowers into the grave, several stopped to speak with Stiles, muttering some version of the all too common ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ He tried to be polite and acknowledge each one, knowing that they were saying this because they didn’t know what else to do and some of them would also feel the Sheriff’s loss. With each interaction though, Stiles found it more and more difficult to concentrate on what people were telling him. His fever was increasing, the achiness had extended to the tips of his fingers and toes, and he could feel a growing molten heat at his core. He was dizzy and he was afraid that the growing heat in the center of his body would result in vomiting all over some hapless, well-meaning neighbor. When the dizziness kicked in he grabbed onto Melissa’s forearm with cold clammy hands. She looked at his face abruptly and immediately put the back of her hand against his forehead.

“Stiles, honey, you’re burning up. We need to get you somewhere you can rest,” she told him quietly in his ear. The funeral attendees were at a trickle now, nearly all gone and heading back to their various homes or to Melissa’s.

“I can make it until they’re all gone. I need to be here until the end,” he pleaded. He did not feel well, but he also knew he’d never forgive himself for skipping out on his dad’s funeral illness be damned. Melissa looked at him with worry and exchanged glances with Scott who was subtly sniffing at Stiles.

“You don’t smell so good buddy. You smell a bit strange…off. Are you sure you want to stay?”, Scott said.

“Wow, Scotty. Thank you. You and your freaky werewolf senses can kiss my ass. I’m sorry if I stink. I showered this morning. Yes, I need to stay. We won’t be here much longer and then I can rest a bit before having to deal with all the people afterwards at your mom’s house,” Stiles whispered harshly. “I’ll be fine, but thank you for looking out for me dude. You know I appreciate it,” he added after seeing the hurt cross Scott’s face. He squeezed Scott’s arm with his hand for reassurance.

              The burning continued to build slowly as the funeral finally came to a close. Stiles had been severely sick before: he’d had pneumonia twice as a teenager and had to have his appendix removed right before his 18th birthday. All of those experiences had been painful, but he’d never felt a fever like this before. It was as if every single nerve ending was alive and excruciatingly sensitive. The brush of clothing against his torso and groin shooting daggers of pain and irritation up his spine. That pulsing molten heat in the center of his body had grown more liquid-feeling and he thought he could feel something leaking out of his ass…but couldn’t tell if it was that or a bizarre sensation caused by the sweat coating his body. He tried to stand up to walk to Scott’s car, but he found that his knees were shaking and having trouble sustaining his weight. He started to fall, but was caught by Scotty and lifted into a bridal carry in his arms as Scott moved swiftly towards his vehicle—werewolf strength not even phased by Stiles’s dead weight.

              Melissa’s eyes were wide with worry. Quickly getting into the driver’s seat as her son loaded his best friend into the back seat, Stiles head resting in Scott’s lap. “Stiles, we’re taking you to the ER to be looked over. Your fever set in too quickly. It’s probably just exhaustion, but I’ll feel better after someone’s looked at you, okay?", she said over her shoulder into the back seat. Stiles made a sound in the affirmative as Melissa turned the car towards the hospital. Scott ran his hand through Stiles’s hair murmuring comforting words softly to Stiles, his overheated body relishing in the intimate touch.

              A few streets away from the hospital Melissa turned around to look at Scott after hearing an, “Oh, Fuck!,” come out of his mouth. “What is it? What’s wrong?”, she asked, taking in Scott’s bright red face, tense shoulders, and pinched face.

              “Mom, I don’t think Stiles has a fever,” Scott said strangely. Speaking carefully as if to not take in any oxygen while his mouth was open.

              Melissa looked down at Stiles laying across her son’s lap, her eyes widening as she took in the scene. Scott’s hand remained clenched in Stiles’s hair, but his entire body was stiff his other hand desperately trying to push Stiles’s face back from where it was nuzzling against Scott’s crotch. Over the sound of traffic, Melissa picked up the sounds of Stiles’s soft whimpers and he fought to get closer to Scott’s body.

              Mortified, but keeping Stiles at bay, Scott told his mother, “he’s going into heat, mom. I can smell his slick.”

              Melissa turned back around and pushed down the accelerator harder, getting them to the hospital as quickly as possible.

 

…*…

 

              Melissa McCall paced in the hallway outside the examination room where Stiles was being examined by Dr. Conrad Fenris, Scott sat waiting stoically in the chair near the door. Melissa believed her son was likely correct about Stiles’s condition, which only increased her worry over the boy she viewed as a second son. If Stiles was indeed in heat, then it meant he was presenting as something supernatural. Humans didn’t experience heat symptoms without the presence of black market drugs, but their effect was instantaneous, and Stiles had not ingested anything at the funeral. There were rare cases that documented humans going into heat, but this only occurred when the human came into physical contact with their supernatural ‘True Mate,’ if they had one. Melissa supposed this was possible, but the only supernatural being she was aware that Stiles had come into contact with was her son and if the two of them were mates that would have manifested years ago—besides, Scott was a bitten werewolf. The most likely possibility was that there had always been something magical about Stiles, but it had remained dormant until triggered. From Melissa’s understanding of the supernatural, that trigger could have been as simple as the stress of his father’s death or the stars falling into a particular alignment, depending on the species—and there were preciously few ways a human medical facility would be able to determine any of that.

              Anxiety pitted in her stomach. As the mother of a bitten werewolf, she knew first-hand the problems a person with supernatural abilities could face. Scott had been bitten by a mad rogue passing through and without any werewolf packs in Beacon Hills, he managed to avoid getting sucked into pack politics and the tumultuous and guarded secrets of all things supernatural and magical. There had been werewolves in Beacon Hills once, but they’d all disappeared a little over a decade ago. The one good thing her good for nothing ex-husband had done was use his FBI connections to ensure that when neighboring packs had come knocking interested in taking in Scott, they were shut down and Scott was allowed to maintain his independence, she wasn’t sure if Stiles would be so lucky.

              The supernatural had been known by the human world for centuries. There had been wars in the past, but humans and those who were just a little bit more had lived alongside one another peacefully for 300 years. The two societies didn’t often overlap. It wasn’t uncommon to see a druid or werecat at the grocery store while you were doing your shopping, or for your children to have supernatural classmates. When human society had need for the supernatural, such as in medicine or if crops wouldn’t grow, it was common to call upon your magical neighbors for assistance. Supernatural creatures moved freely in human society and if they went on any kind of murdering rampage, they were treated like any other alleged criminal. Even with the integration, most Supernatural beings set themselves distinctly apart from human society. Most humans didn’t know much about supernatural culture and politics, aside from what made it onto TV, and frankly, most didn’t care. People were friendly with supernaturals, but over the centuries of peace ‘leaving well-enough alone’ had been deeply distilled across human cultures when it came to anything that went bump in the night.

              Melissa didn’t know too much, but after Scott was bitten she made it a priority to learn as much as she could. Most supernaturals were guarded about their secrets, but some things were easy enough for her to find out. The Bureau of Magical Abilities and Creatures, or BMAC for short, was the government body that oversaw and regulated the supernatural world. BMAC handled any liaisons with the human world, employed the hunters who kept out-of-control supernaturals in check, they provided healthcare to anyone with supernatural abilities, training in abilities, and anything else a person might need to live their day-to-day lives that they couldn’t get elsewhere.

              If Stiles had gone into heat, then that would mean he was of a class of supernatural beings that required a mate. If left unmated, the heat coursing through his body would eventually destroy his nervous system and fry the cells in his body; from the gossip she had heard through other nurses over the years, it was supposed to be an agonizing, slow death and was widely considered cruel to leave someone unmated and in pain if options were available that could be consented to (or as some rumors went, not). One of the primary responsibilities of BMAC was to assist with locating and bringing together potential mates, but this was a service directed towards teenagers as most beings that were going to go into heat did so around their 16th birthday. Luckily, Scott was just a Beta werewolf, he never had to deal with heat. Stiles was twenty-eight though. Melissa dreaded how all of this would be handled. Would there even be potential mates within his age range, or would Stiles have to be mated off to some kid?

              Blessedly, Melissa had only had to interact directly with BMAC and its officials on a handful of occasions. A few related to her work and after Scott had been bitten when they’d gone to Sacremento to register him. Each interaction had left Melissa with an unsettled feeling that she could never explain. For Stiles sake, she hoped everything would go smoothly.

The examination room door opened and Dr. Fenris stepped out. Scott stood from his chair and Melissa stopped her pacing, both approaching the doctor to hear his results.

“He’s definitely in the stages of heat,” Dr. Fenris explained calmly. “Our equipment isn’t up-to-date enough to give me any information on species or what triggered this at his age. He’ll need to go to the Bureau for that.” The Doctor shuffled through his notes, “I see that Stiles’s medical records were updated when he was brought in, his father is no longer his emergency contact?”

“His father passed away recently,” Melissa replied quietly, the strain of the day catching up to her.

“Pity,” Fenris responded. “Stiles is coherent enough that he named you Ms. McCall as his temporary emergency contact until further arrangements can be made. As his contact, it is my duty to inform you that the Bureau of Magical Abilities and Creatures has been contacted per our protocol. They have dispatched a transport from the Sacramento office that should be here within the hour. I was informed that you are of course, welcome to accompany Stiles to the facility. Your son as well. The medical assistant I spoke to on the phone said it would be advisable for Stiles to have a familiar presence around, and whereas your son is a registered were, I think they hope you and he can help make this transition for Stiles as painless as possible.”

 

“Of course,” Melissa nodded. They damn well better be letting her and Scott go with them, she thought. There was no way she was leaving Stiles alone after the last few days he’d had.

“Can we see him now?”, Scott asked. Anxiety for his best friend practically rolling off of him.

“Yes, that’s not a problem,” Fenris said. “We’ve given him a sedative per instructions of the Bureau that will help suppress his heat symptoms until appropriate arrangements can be made. You both can go in, he’s waiting for you,” the doctor smiled.

 

As Melissa and Scott entered the exam room where Stiles waited, Dr. Fenris went over to the phone at the nurse’s station. He dialed the familiar number and waited while it rang.

“Yes?”, a voice answered.

“It’s me. We’ve got a live one, his blood work is off the charts. I’ve no idea what he is, but I’m faxing you the paperwork now I already called your people, they are on their way now," Dr. Fenris spoke into the phone.

 

A little over a hundred miles away, Dr. Gabriel Valack smiled. “Thank you, Fenris. I appreciate the call. I’ll let you know if anything comes up.”

“Great, thank you. Goodbye,” Fenris responded.

“Goodbye, Fenris,” Valack hung up the phone and listened for the sound of the fax machine. When the papers arrived he glanced them over, smiling as he went through the blood work and initial test results--Fenris was right. He wouldn't be letting this one slip through his fingers. Going back to his phone, Valack dialed a new number, listening to it wring once before being picked up.

 

“What?”, the voice demanded.

Valack chuckled, “Hello to you too Deucalion.”

“Hello, Valack. What can I do for you?”, the wolf sighed.

“Tell me Duke, how would you feel about getting a new bitch?”, Valack asked. Having piqued the werewolf’s interest, Valack quickly finished the phone call. Gathering what he needed from his office he headed out the door. He whistled to himself as he walked down the center’s hallway. It looked like today was going to be a good day.

 

…*…

 

Marin Morrell waited patiently by the emergency entrance to the Sacramento office of the Bureau of Magical Abilities and Creatures. She was waiting to greet a new charge placed under her care, one Stiles Stilinski, coming up from Beacon Hills and his entourage. The responding medics who had picked Stilinski up from the human hospital had given her precious little to go on to prepare; all she knew was he was a 28-year old male who was experiencing severe heat symptoms that had begun earlier that day. He had been administered a heat suppressant that would give her time to do her work, but nothing on how far into the heat Stiles had been or how strong the suppressant dose. For all she knew she could have mere hours to do Stiles’s testing and locate a suitable mate or weeks; for his sake, she hoped it was the latter.

              Marin was uneasy about this case. The intake of a newly presented person in heat should have been standard procedure—even if the patient’s age, was a bit odd, it wasn’t unheard of. But Dr. Valack, head of the Sacramento facility, had seemed to take an unusual interest in this case and she had the distinct feeling that he was withholding information from her about her patient. She had worked for BMAC for the past fifteen years as a psychiatrist, her druid abilities making her particularly suited to meet the medical needs of a wide variety of supernaturals. In the ten years she had worked for Valack, his behavior had often raised red flags, and the majority of the time Marin’s instincts proved correct. She knew something was afoot. She’d been hearing whisperings of something the Bureau was planning. There had been rumors in a change in power at the top of the organization’s hierarchy, but nothing could be confirmed. Everything remained far too hush-hush for her liking, or her contacts who depending on the information she leaked to them.

              She stood tall and put on a smile as the transport carrying Stiles Stilinski and his companions approached the building, stopping in front of her. An orderly in the front passenger seat stepped out and opened the side door, allowing three people to exit the vehicle. She allowed her druid abilities to flare for just a moment as she took in the three individuals: werewolf, human, and…something else.

              “You must be Stiles,” Marin smiled and approached Stiles with an outstretched hand, shaking his before stepping back, giving the three newcomers space to approach the building as the transport drove away. “I’m Marin Morrell. I’m a druid here at BMAC as a psychiatrist. I will be assisting you in your transition and anything that comes up,” she told Stiles. He had a blank expression on his face and looked exhausted. He was wearing a rumpled suit and upon further inspection, Marin realized that the two people with him were also dressed quite formally. The older woman in the group looked just as tired as Stiles and anxious, if Marin was reading her correctly. She carried an air of distrust about her. ‘Good,’ Marin thought. ‘Perhaps our young friend may yet survive this.’ The other man was standing near Stiles, he also appeared suspicious, but was exuding protectiveness, he practically blocked Stiles from Marin’s view.

“I don’t need or want a mate,” came Stiles’s terse response from the back of the group. “I will not consent.”

“Mr. Stilinski,” Marin began diplomatically. “I can assure you that I will personally allow nothing to happen to you without your express consent while you remain in my care,” she told him, looking directly into Stiles’s eyes now. Marin hoped she conveyed her seriousness through her expression. If Valack was planning something for this poor man, than she needed him to trust her.

“Even if that means never having a mate?”, Stiles asked.

Marin stilled herself and calmed her mind. “Stiles,” she began, “if we can maintain your health without the need for a mate, then I will whole-heartedly support your decision. There is no way for us to determine what is going on with you biologically and magically without further testing, but I won’t lie to you. If you what you experienced today was the beginning stages of heat, then there is nothing that can be done to stop the heat without the presence of a mate. Suppressants can be used to hold off the heat for up to a month, but afterwards the damage done to your body will kill you. I promise you that I will never force a mate upon you. I will do everything in my power to provide you with the best testing available and select your best options, and if a mate is in your future, I will ensure that you are matched with the one of your choosing who is best for you. The only other option would kill you, and I cannot in good conscience allow that to happen, nor do I think the people who came here with you today and clearly care for you deeply would want that to happen.”

The older woman wrapped her arm around Stiles’s waist and squeezed gently. “It’s going to be okay honey. Scott and I will not leave you. We’ll be here for you and figure this out, okay?", she said.

“And what about afterwards, Melissa?”, Stiles asked in a shaky voice. “What happens when I’m tied to some person I don’t know for the rest of my life and they start controlling everything I do? I felt the slick coming out of me, I know what that means. I’m on the bottom of whatever hierarchy I end up mated into.”

Scott, the werewolf by Stiles’s side turned and looked directly at him. “We won’t let that happen to you Stiles. I promise. I will destroy anyone that tries to do that to you.”

Stiles took a moment and stared and Scott, then turned and looked at Melissa. After an awkward minute or so, Stiles turned to address Marin. “Where do we begin?”, he asked.

Marin smiled gently, “If you’ll all follow me to my office we can go over what testing needs to be accomplished and dive right in. Are any of you hungry?”

Stiles, Scott, and Melissa, responded in the affirmative and followed Marin into the building and down a long, sanitary hallway and through several sets of doors. While they walked, she stated to Stiles, “You seem to know quite a bit about the supernatural and the mating habits of certain species for someone who spent the first 28 years of his life as human.”

Stiles could hear the question implied in her statement. He rolled his eyes a bit internally, but didn’t sass the woman. She hadn’t done anything to him but have the bad luck of getting stuck with his case. “I guess that’s what happens when your best friend growing up is a werewolf,” he replies, “getting your PhD in Folklore and Mythology helps too. The supernatural pops up a lot in my research, it was helpful to know as much as I could about contemporary culture.” Stiles shrugged. He liked research and the supernatural DID come up all the time in his reading and work. It would be stupid not to learn as much as he could.

“Good,” was the druid’s reply as her heels clicked down the hallway before stopping in front of a door that she opened and gestured them all inside. “That will help make all of this easier for you.” Marin moved about her office gathering the files she would need to run Stiles’s tests and phoning a nurse to come drawn some of Stiles’s blood and asking the cafeteria to bring down menus for the three of them.

“Now, what do you know about how BMAC matches up supernaturals for mating?”, she asked Stiles.

“Not much. Information like that isn’t easily accessible to the human public,” Stiles replied. He was starting to get fidgety sitting in Marin’s office chairs. That wasn’t a good sign, either his suppressant was wearing off, or hopefully, he was just anxious or had difficulty focusing.

“That’s okay, I’ll go over it with you, but first the nurse needs to draw some blood so we can determine if mating is even a route we will have to go down and figure out what is going on with you,” Marin replied. She gestured the nurse into her office and turned back to Stiles. “Do you consent to having your blood drawn today?”, she asked.

“Sure,” Stiles said. “That’s fine.”

Marin smiled. “Thank you, this is Cynthia. She’ll be able to do it right here and then run the tests for us.”

While the nurse drew Stiles’s blood, Marin brought over a series of documents from her desk to show Stiles. “These are a battery of tests that we’ll need to do in addition to your blood work to determine your supernatural designation and abilities. Usually, your blood work will let us know your species and any sub-categories like secondary genders. Your blood should also have markers in the red and white blood cells that allow us to read your magical potential and range—in your case, it will also help with letting us know how far into heat you were and how long the suppressants can be expected to last, just so we can have a time line.”

 

“Alleged heat,” Stiles muttered.

Marin smiled and nodded, “Yes, excuse me. Your alleged heat. While the lab runs your bloodwork, I’d like to begin with you filling out some of this paperwork. Now Stiles, you’re going to find some of these questions embarrassing and personal, but I need you to answer everything you can as honestly as possible _._ Is that clear?”

Stiles blushed slightly, “What could you possibly need to know that I would find embarrassing?”

“Well,” Marin replied, “for one, your sexual preferences. You are older than the typical individual who experiences heat—”

 

“My alleged heat,” Stiles interrupted looking petulant and grumpy.

 

“I’ll rephrase,” Marin said, “You are older than the typical individual whom I see and I am going to operate off of the assumption that you are not a virgin and in fact have some awareness of the sexual acts you enjoy doing and having done to you?”, she stated calmly.

 

All three persons sitting across from her desk blushed furiously, Melissa McCall looking the most uncomfortable.

“Stiles,” Marin continued, “some supernatural species exhibit certain sexual preferences, which will help us in determining your designation. And,” she paused, “if what you experienced today were heat symptoms then it would be preferable to match you with a partner who shares your sexual preferences, would it not? Our goal is to make sure your life is fulfilling, happy, and healthy—an active sex life is an important part of that.”

“Sure, except where the part about the whole acquiring a mate thing kind of puts a damper on the whole free will thing,” Stiles responded flatly, glaring at the desk where Marin sat.

“It is unfortunate that you’re going to be on a time constraint,” Marin said. “You didn’t grow up in this culture and the expectation that you would one day get a mate. And if I’m correct, your friend Scott is a Beta werewolf? He still has a mate, but he won’t experience heats and a biological imperative to mate.”

Stiles snorted darkly, “So it’s basically fuck or die?”

Marin paused a moment, considering. “I wouldn’t necessarily put it that way, but I can see why you’d feel like that. If you require a mate, were going to find the best option for you that is most compatible. Stiles, if we can find a mate with a high rate of compatibility, I promise you that with time it won’t feel like anything that was forced. Someone that you are highly compatible with will come to feel natural and you will develop feelings for that person. Ideally, we can find potential mates for you and continue holding off your heat as long as possible so you have the opportunity to meet potential matches, go on dates, get to know people, and make an informed decision.”

Stiles watched Marin as she spoke, but his face still held its stony expression. From the chair next to him, Melissa asked, “what do you test for and how high is the usual rate of compatibility?”

Marin glanced at Melissa as she spoke, but addressed her answer to Stiles. “The majority of mates who use the BMAC testing system have between an 85% and 92% compatibility—anything about 92% is considered a near perfect match. We look at several factors: Stiles’s biological needs are one of the primary concerns. Depending on his designation he may require a mate that has the ability to meet certain bodily needs—things like a certain type of pheromone or supernatural abilities that don’t conflict with each other. His magical needs also take precedent. Compatibility with personalities is key and thoroughly tested along with short-term and long-term life goals and compatibility. For example, its important to know if Stiles wants kids one day and if so, how important that is to him. If it’s a dealbreaker, then we don’t want to pair him with someone who has no interest in being a parent. There is the sexual compatibility I already mentioned, and lastly, but perhaps most importantly is the scent test.”

 

“What’s a scent test?”, Stiles asked, his curiosity piqued. He wished he had a notebook to take notes. A lot of the information Marin was providing would be useful to know for future research.

Marin turned around to the bookshelf behind her and removed one of the very large binders. She opened it to reveal that the book was filled with sealed packages containing an information card and a piece of fabric. “When every Supernatural being is registered with BMAC, they provide an article of clothing they wear frequently. Scott, did you do that when you first registered?”, Marin asked. Scott nodded his head.

“You never told me that!”, Stiles accused.

Scott shrugged, “It didn’t seem important.”

Marin continued, “Pieces of that article of clothing are distributed to all of the major BMAC centers in that country and as many places internationally as we are able to reach. Supernatural creatures have been locating mates long before modern psychology and medical technology provided the tools to help find compatible individuals. Mate selection was primarily done through scent. When someone was a very good match for you, their smell would appeal to you—think of it as a way to draw in potential suitors.”

“Can I try that now, just to see what it’s like?”, Stiles asked.

Marin smiled, it seemed like the more she appealed to the man’s curiosity and need for knowledge, the easier this process would be. “Of course,” she said. She picked two random scent samples and handed them to Stiles. “Now, just open the package and tell me what you smell.”

Stiles opened the first package and breathed deeply through his nose. He immediately jerked back, his face twisting in a sour expression. “Ugh, gross,” he muttered. “It smells like vinegar and sour milk.”

“Try the other one,” Marin told him.

Stiles handed the first package back to Marin and opened the second. This scent was far more pleasant. “It smells like popcorn and…”, he smelled again, “french fries.”

Marin chuckled softly, “Well, it sounds like the second scent would have been a better match for you then, but perhaps neither of them fit perfectly.”

Stiles grunted in assent, but remained skeptical. Marin handed over the stack of tests to Stiles along with a pen just as the door knocked, bringing in an orderly with Stiles’s bloodwork results and a stack of menus from the cafeteria.

“Oh thank God,” Stiles said. “I’m starving.”

Marin took the paperwork to look over at her desk, while the McCalls and Stiles looked over the menus and placed their orders with the waiting orderly. After ordering their meal, Stiles begrudgingly turned towards the pile of testing Marin and handed him and settled into the table in Marin’s office to complete the paperwork. Melissa and Scott turning to read through some pamphlets Marin had provided to assist Stiles with choices he would need to make in the near future.

              When everyone had settled, Marin opened the manila folder with the results of Stiles’s blood work. The only thing that kept her from going pale and wide-eyed at what was on the papers before her was years of practice schooling her expression and controlling her heartbeat in order to deceive BMAC officials and conceal the information she quietly leaked to those outside of the Bureau’s control. Stiles Stilinski’s blood count that measured magical ability and potential was incredibly high. Few magical creatures could contain power that strong and not have their body torn to shreds by their own abilities. Stiles would most certainly need a mate (and a strong one at that) to act as his anchor and help stem the raging volcano inside of Stiles.

              The remainder of the blood work was confusing. Stiles appeared for all intents and purposes to be human. His blood held no magical markers giving species designation, though it was clear from his red blood cells that he had receptors within the cell that could and would hold molecules that created a species designation. Stiles’s secondary-gender was also blatantly obvious, he was an omega. But curiously, his blood was absent of any omegan molecules, yet it contained the cellular structures that would be needed to support an omegan system.

              With the remainder of the information Marin could garner from Stiles’s blood work she deduced that he would indeed need a mate, the suppressants could hold off the heat for a little less than a month--if they were lucky and started Stiles on a steady dosage immediately--and the best option for a potential mate was some type of were-creature or a druid. Both would have the magical ability and strength to act as an anchor for Stiles, but Marin was of the opinion that a were would be preferable. She shuddered to think what a druid  with a taste for darker magic would do with access to Stiles; the boy was a magical battery of untapped power. She could understand why the man had drawn Valack’s attention. Whatever that madman had planned for Stiles, Marin Morrell could not allow it to happen. She didn’t know what Stiles was, what he could do, but it was clear that whatever the answers, he was important.

Stiles looked up from the paperwork he was completing. “How long after I finish all of this will it take for us to get some answers?”, he asked.

Marin took a moment before answering him, still trying to gather her thoughts and collect her expression. She mustered a smile and looked at Stiles, “we should receive our answers fairly quickly and be able to move forward. I will process all of your test results personally.”

…*...

Several hours later Stiles was sitting at the table in Marin’s office with Scott and Melissa getting ready to open up the scent book Marin had provided him. He was exhausted and not happy about what was happening. Not only had he buried his father just that morning—it seemed so much longer already—he badly needed sleep, there was a low-key ache all over his body, he was fucking horny, he’d been stuck in this damn office for the past four hours, and Marin had informed him an hour ago that his body would definitely require a mate.

              Stiles felt disoriented. Yesterday he was human and dealing with the death of his dad and trying to make do with his life. Just a few days before that he had been a mostly happy, but slightly stressed graduate student who was looking forward to seeing his father in a few weeks and who’s biggest worry was not fucking up the next meeting with his advisor. Now he was smelling scraps of cloth to find his future other half? What the fuck was his life?

              Without the tests before him and an activity to pour his focus into, Stiles’s mind drifted towards the funeral and the reality of missing his father. ‘He should be here for this,’ Stiles thought. ‘He’d know what to do.’

              Marin had gone over Stiles’s results with him, Melissa, and Scott. In her opinion, it was in his best interest to bond with some type of were, specifically an alpha. Apparently, biologically, magically, _and sexually_ his results most closely aligned with a were-type match--Stiles had blushed at that part, but fuck it--he would not be kink shamed. When Marin ran his results through the system, she had been VERY excited at how high of a percentage some of his matches had been. She’d quickly brought together the scent samples of the twenty highest matches from the North American BMAC system and presented them to Stiles in the binder currently sitting in front of him. He didn’t want to do this. He was exhausted, angry, and feeling alone even with his best friend and his best friend’s mother at his side.

              Stiles went through the samples one at a time. None of them immediately repulsed him like the rotting vinegar one had from earlier—Marin and Scott seemed to find that promising. Some smelled better than others and he set those aside for closer inspection after going through them all. Stiles picked up the second to last package in the binder—the piece of fabric looked like a piece of black leather. He looked at the fabric carefully for a moment, then opened the package and inhaled.

 

Time stopped.

 

Or at least it felt that way to Stiles as his senses exploded. The scrap of leather smelled like hot chocolate during a heavy rain storm, wet dirt during Spring, fresh cherry pie, and what he could only describe as the feeling that comes from school ending and the wild freedom of summer looms before you. He didn’t understand how the piece of fabric could smell like so many things, something had to be wrong with it. All the other scent samples he had gone through had two smells, three at most…but this one, something about this one. Stiles inhaled again. All the same scents were there, but this time Stiles noticed an underlying musk that shot straight to his cock and started chubbing it up. The musk had an edge to it. Not quite leather. Not quite mouth-watering cologne, but something natural and in-between. There was a dark flavor to this smell, it coiled in Stiles's belly and made his cock strain against his pants. He didn't know how to describe it. There was a promise in that scent, a promise of pleasure edged with something more. Somehow, the small square of fabric smelled to Stiles like sex and home. He wanted to take the piece out and rub his face all over it.

              Stiles remained so transfixed on the piece of black leather that he didn’t notice Marin, Scott, and Melissa staring at him. Scott cleared his throat for what sounded like the third or fourth time, breaking Stiles out of his trance to look at his best friend.

“You okay there, buddy?”, Scott asked.

Stiles tried to respond, but his tongue couldn’t form the words he needed. He looked back at the piece of cloth again, sniffing it softly one more time. When the smell reached his nose, Stiles could feel his loneliness slip away and the heaviness in his heart over the events in the past few days seemed lighter and easier to manage. He didn’t understand it, and while a part of him was singing with joy, a larger part was completely terrified by what that scent represented. With shaking hands, he closed the package and handed it cautiously back to Morrell.

 

“It’s this one,” Stiles said, sounding a little bit breathless and terrified.

 

Marin took the package back from Stiles, noting the number. She thought as much from the percentages the tests produced--the ID on the package matching up with Stiles's highest match. “Are there any others that you’d like to meet?”, she asked him.

 

Stiles sat for a moment. He looked torn. Hopeful, yet fearful and sad. He handed Marin the other scents he had already set aside. “You can do these ones too, but it’s going to be that one,” Stiles said with surety.

 

“Okay,” Marin said. She looked at Stiles worryingly. She didn’t know what he had going on in his life lately, but she could tell it had taken its toll. Transitioning into the supernatural world was never easy for anyone, and Stiles seemed to have a good group of people around him to act as support. She just hoped that whoever the scent sample belonged to, they would treasure and protect this young man.

 

“It’s getting quite late and we’ll need you around for the next day or so to meet candidates and figure out how to proceed. The center has guests rooms in the top floors for overnight and extended visits, why don’t I put the three of you up there and we can continue this tomorrow?”, Marin asked the group. They needed rest and Stiles could use time to unwind.

              Marin personally escorted the three of them to rooms on the 7th floor after collecting the keys from the center’s receptionist. After parting ways and their doors had been shut, Marin placed a ward over the doors to Stiles and both McCall’s rooms—if anyone went in or out, Marin would be alerted immediately.

 

Returning to her office, Marin sat down at her computer and prepared to finish the paperwork on Stiles’s file so that potential candidates could be contacted as soon as possible. After accessing Stiles’s file, she noticed that strangely, a potential mate had already been entered in for Stiles. She copied the ID number and searched in her database, paling when the results appeared on her screen.

_Deucalion_.

             

Marin sat back in her chair and stared at the screen. She was all too familiar with that name. She had hoped she would never see or hear it again. A quick check told her that whoever had matched Stiles with Deucalion had executive override—'Valack,’ she thought. There would be no way for her to change it within the system, but she would not allow Stiles Stilinski to fall into the hands of _that_ particular alpha werewolf. Marin searched for the ID number of Stiles’s preferred match. The familiar name popped up on the screen as well as the most recent picture the Bureau had access to. Marin sat and thought for a moment. She knew they were somewhere in New York now. She’d have to call _him_ to get in contact.

Reluctantly, she exited the Bureau building, got in her car and drove to the random gas station several miles down the road. She pulled out a cell phone from her purse, went inside the gas station to buy a coffee, and then walked several hundred yards away from her vehicle before placing the call.

 

“Is this a secured line?”, he answered.

Marin rolled her eyes, “Would I have called you if it wasn’t?”

“What do you need? I’m busy,” was his clipped response.

“Valack is up to something big. I’ve got a newly presented MB who’s blood work is off the charts. Valack is trying to force a mating through quickly and not with the guy’s preferred choices,” Marin said.

“Do you know his Magical Being status yet? And who is Valack pairing him with?”, the man on the other end of the line asked.

“No...and it's Deucalion,” Marin said flatly.

“Shit. Do you think this is some kind of power play? Is the Bureau finally making a move?”, he asked.

“I don’t know,” Marin sighed, “but something is going on with this kid. I need you to use your Resistance contacts to get in touch with a potential mate for this guy and get him here fast.”

Marin was met by an extended silence. There was no guarantee he would help her, the two hadn’t always seen eye to eye, but she had saved his ass by feeding him key information for the resistance over the past few years—he owed her.

“You got a name?”, finally came the response.

“Peter Hale,” Marin said. “I need Peter Hale and his nephew on a plane and in Sacramento by lunch tomorrow.”

“You sure you want to go there? I wouldn't recommend trusting Peter Hale with anything,” he replied. "The man isn't exactly stable."

“Are you sure you just don't want to be the one to call him? It’s not Peter I’m after. We need the nephew. Get him here. Whatever you have to do. Just get him here,” she said then disconnected the call.

 

Marin Morrell returned to her car. She sipped her coffee slowly, thinking through how she could pull this off under Valack’s nose. Thirty minutes later, Marin had drained her coffee and had a plan in place; she started the car and headed home.

 

…*…

 

A little over one hundred miles away, back in Beacon Hills a figure quietly picked the lock on the back door of the Stilinski house, slipping inside unseen. He moved through the house quickly and silently, checking each room thoroughly for his quarry. The house was completely devoid of life, but he knew he didn’t have much time. He walked into the office on the second floor, there on the desk lay the small black box. Covering his hands with thick leather gloves and removing a pair of tongs from his jacket pocket he opened the box—careful not to touch it with any part of his body. Inside, nestled in the black velvet the necklace lay shimmering in the moonlight.

              Shutting the box, he picked it up with the tongs and placed the box in a sack he had brought for this specific purpose. He deposited the sack in his coat pocket and was out of the house seconds later. The entire operation had taken less than four minutes.

              Standing next to an old oak tree across the street, the man warded himself. He was completely invisible to any eyes, whether on this plane or elsewhere. Less than five minutes later, four figures cloaked in black and wearing disfigured masks appeared outside the house. The man watched as they entered the building—the sound of glass breaking, objects being overturned, and fabric slashing reached his ears minutes later. The four figures moved room to room, searching and destroying, searching and destroying. After a few moments he heard their screams as their quandary came up empty handed. The unnatural high-pitched eerie sound pierced through the night.

              The four shapes exited the house, the first three disappearing with a puff and a crack. The last one hesitated. Glancing around, it looked towards the oak tree where the man stood and stilled. The man held his breath, reminding himself that it could not see or sense him. Then, with a last glance in all directions, the last figure too vanished.

              The man waited for thirty minutes, not moving. Not daring to draw any attention to himself. When he felt assured that it was safe, he took down his wards and slipped away silently into the night.


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Foul language, non-consensual bondage, discussion of violence and abandonment
> 
> I think this goes without saying, but this story is obviously very not canon compliant. Throughout this series, you will find that I cherry pick what I want quite liberally. I don't think that detracts from the story, but if its not your thing, that's cool. 
> 
> Anywho, I hope you enjoy :)

              Stiles collapsed onto the bed face first, he shoved his head into the pillow. Stretched out on his stomach, he just laid there, letting his feet hang off the edge of the bed. He wanted to scream and idly wondered if Scott would be able to pick that up from the next room over. Fucking werewolf senses. He was tired. Exhausted, really. And as he lay there trying to process what had just happened in the past few hours, he added disoriented to the catalog of his current state of being. It almost felt like he’d had too much to drink the way his life was spinning out of his control. On the emotional front, he wasn’t sure how he was doing. Numb, maybe? Still in shock? Angry? Depressed? Sad? Maybe all of the above?

              Stiles did not want a mate. He knew a little bit about mates in the supernatural world, and while finding it interesting from an intellectual standpoint—and there was something heartening about the idea that someone out there was so completely compatible with you that they might as well have been made for you—but he did not like feeling like his agency and ability to choose had been taken away from him. Could a blood sample, some stupid psychological screenings, and the way someone smelled really spell out a happy, fulfilling relationship? And if this person was so biologically suited to his needs and wants, then how was he supposed to know if his feelings were genuine of just the biological impulses of his fucked up body? And did that matter? If it was _his_ body doing it, did it matter what _he_ thought about it?

 

              ‘Fuck, yes it does,’ Stiles thought. He needed to exert control over his own life. Just because his body wanted/needed one thing, didn’t mean he had to do it if it didn’t sit right with him. He ~~wouldn’t~~ couldn’t. No matter how good that scrap of leather had smelled.

              Stiles moaned at the memory. The way the scent had coursed through his body had stunned him. He didn’t know if he’d be able to resist whoever it belonged to. His senses had been completely overwhelmed. He hadn’t realized how much he had been missing in his day to day life until that smell. The rightness of the scent and his body’s reaction and acceptance of it terrified him.

He knew enough from his own research that a mating could go quite poorly for him depending on what his mate wanted. After Scott had been bitten by a werewolf during high school, Stiles had become obsessed and researched everything he could possibly find out about werewolf physiology, pack dynamics, culture, history…and even mating practices. What? He was looking out for Scott’s best interests. The research had eventually culminated into the honor’s thesis for his bachelor’s degree, which had helped him get into graduate school. He was aware that many werewolf packs were quite traditional—the Head Alpha could essentially be a glorified dictator, their word was law. Betas fell underneath them in the hierarchy and below that were the Omegas.

 The history and cultural understanding of Omegas in werewolf packs varied widely and was often inconsistent from what Stiles could find. In many traditional packs, Omegas were no more than glorified breeding stock; completely under the thumb of their Alpha, they had little of their own agency. Stiles had read that some were societies had once worshipped Omegas as manifestations of fertility gods—it was unclear if this still existed, but Stiles wasn’t sure he’d be game for some of the rituals he’d read about.

When Marin had gone over his test results with him, she’d explained that his blood work had shown the markers of an Omega. The slick production coming out of his butt and symptoms he’d had at the funeral—which Marin had confirmed was _indeed heat symptoms_ all pointed to the same thing: Stiles Stilinski was some kind of Omega, though Marin hadn’t known anything about species and she’d been shifty about explaining anything else.

Stiles didn’t want to be anyone’s bitch. Well, strike that. Stiles would all too happily be someone’s bitch/bottom boy/slut—he knew his kinks and what he liked, but there was a massive huge difference between choosing that for himself and being forced into due to a hierarchical structure that would strip him of all free will. One was kinky, sexy, fun…the other was hell. Some might say the difference was subtle and negligible, but it wasn’t for him. Not after what he’d been through. Not after losing so much. If he was going to be tied to a person for the rest of forever, he needed that person to want him and respect him and his ability to choose. Stiles was officially a 28-year old orphan. Aside from the bro-ship with Scott and by extension Melissa, he was alone. He needed a place to call his own, to have roots—but he also desperately needed the people and that place to respect him and value him for his intelligent, spastic self. If being mated to an alpha meant losing his identity after he’d already lost everything else? No. There was no coming back from that. He would not. No matter who tried to stop him, he would not. He’d lost too much already.

 

Resolve affirmed, Stiles rolled over and slipped under the blanket. He calmed his mind by thinking of putting all those emotions and thoughts running around his head into a cardboard box and placing that box on a shelf in a closet. It was a technique he’d used since childhood to help with the ADHD. After clearing everything up and placing it into the box in his mind, Stiles quickly fell asleep.

 

…*…

 

Peter Hale woke to the shrill ring and vibrations of his cell phone. He blearily opened his eyes and glanced at the clock on his nightstand, the numbers read 2:14 am. Groaning and annoyed at whomever had called at such an ungodly hour, he rolled over and reached for the phone. Upon seeing the name displayed, Peter paused and contemplated ignoring the call. After all this time, his heart seized up whenever he saw that name. Whatever he wanted, Peter wasn’t sure he wanted anything to do with it, but then again could he really turn down an opportunity to exploit whatever someone as well connected as the individual calling him in the middle of the night? He answered the call.

 

“Well, well, well. This is a surprise! What could you possibly want from me—,”

 

“Peter,” the voice on the line interrupted him. “You, Laura, and Derek need to come back to California immediately. The next flight leaves JFK at 4:35 am—I’ve already booked tickets for the three of you. You’ll land in San Francisco around 6:30 am local time. From there, you’ll catch a short flight to Sacramento, where I’ll—”

 

“Now hold on just a minute,” Peter snarled. “I don’t take orders from you. Why don’t you explain why I am getting on a plane at this godforsaken hour and _I’ll_ decide if I want to play along. I’m not one of your resistance lap dogs you can just order around. So _darling_ , how about you explain what you want and what do I get out of it, hmm?”

 

“You are such a selfish prick, Peter,” the voice grumbled.

 

Peter chuckled, “Are you going to tell me something I don’t already know? Or can we end this so I can go back to sleep?”

 

The conversation paused. Peter was tempted to just hang up and say fuck it all, but curiosity got the better of him. If something was happening that a _key member_ of the Resistance was calling _him_ , then he probably needed to know. If only to ensure that all the fingers he had in different pies were going to remain secure.

 

“What if I told you that I could give you Kate Argent?”, finally came the response.

 

Peter held his breath and could feel his eyes flash. The sleep clinging to his body vanished as he sat up in bed and fully turned his focus over to the call. Now _this_ was something he could work with.

 

“I’m listening,” came his cold response. Peter could practically hear the smug smile in the voice across the line. He’d love nothing more than to tear it off with his claws, but that could wait until after Kate was taken care of—there were priorities after all.

 

“A new magical being presented today in your family’s old territory. He was taken to Sacramento for testing and placement—Marin handled it herself. Curiously, after finding him a match, Marin found that our friend Valack had already placed the boy with someone else. An old friend of yours, Deucalion—”

 

“That’s a lovely story, but I fail to see how this has anything to do with Kate. Sure, the poor boy is likely to face a future of rape and abuse, but Deucalion is not _my fight_ ,” Peter retorted.

 

“Peter,” came the sighed response. “You know who holds Valack’s strings. Gerard is making a move. If we can stop whatever this is, it will expose what they’re planning, give us more information and help lead to taking them down.”

 

Peter chuckled, “This is rich coming from you. So what you’re saying is that this won’t actually lead directly to me getting what I want, but is merely a step on the way to you taking down their house of cards? Fuck you. I’m not one of your pawns, _darling_. The battles of the Resistance are no longer my concern,” Peter spat into the phone.

 

“Talia would want—”

 

“Oh fuck you. No. NO! You do not get to bring my sister into this you heartless piece of shit. You do not get to speak to me about Talia. If it weren’t for you and your precious inaction my sister and her family _would still be alive_. Go to HELL,” Peter snapped. He was fuming. How dare he? How DARE he mention Talia! After everything he’d done. Everything they had all lost.

Talia and Andrew Hale had been dead for nearly 18 years, but every time Peter thought about them and what had been, it still stung. When the war broke out after the BMAC came into power, Talia and Andrew had quietly joined the resistance--using their contacts and presence in the Bureau to feed information and resources into pockets of the growing resistance movement. Talia had been a powerful Alpha. She was well-respected and had influence; she and Andrew had positioned themselves as moderate centrists while quietly working behind the scenes to disrupt what she had viewed as an out of control authoritative regime and seizure of power. Werewolf packs across North America were deeply divided on the BMAC and what it stood for—yes, it definitely had painted a pretty picture of harmony and peace, but underneath it all were horrifying hegemonic policies that stripped autonomy and revealed far too much information to the hunter community. Talia had believed that something was going on behind the scenes—the shift in power at the BMAC had occurred too quickly, there were too many questions.

And then people had started to go missing. Not many at first. Just enough to fuel rumors. Peter hadn’t known the full extent of Talia’s activities, but he knew she’d been involved in finding out what was happening and he had suspected she had discovered something. He had his suspicions and had spent the last decade trying to prove them. One day after returning from a grocery run with his nieces and nephew, Peter had come back to a burning home lined with mountain ash. He had watched as the structure collapsed in on itself and had heard the heartbeats of his sister, her husband, their parents, and extended family snuff out as they were consumed by the flames.

A cursory investigation of the Hale home in California showed that the BMAC was likely involved if not directly responsible. All the leads Peter could find, from the mountain ash to the accelerant used in the blaze pointed back to one thing: Argent. His heart had been broken and he’d taken his remaining family and fled California—moving to New York onto an older property the family owned. He had made a good show of supporting the BMAC in the ensuing years—playing the demur, heartbroken younger brother just seeking to protect his nieces and nephew in the ‘peace and prosperity’ that was this new world order. As long as he played nice with the BMAC he could quietly dig for information on what had happened and exact his own brand of justice from the shadows. It didn’t matter that all the evidence Peter turned up pointed exclusively to Kate and Gerard’s meddling. It didn’t matter. Peter had lost his mate that day. As far as he was concerned, his mate died in that fire.

 

“Peter,” the voice whined laced with pain. “Peter…your family has a vested interest in this boy. His results…he’s a mate—”

 

              “MY MATE IS DEAD!”, Peter screamed into the phone. He was furious now. His claws had popped and his eyes were burning a constant red. He noticed drops of blood from his palms had dripped onto the bed sheets and rolled his eyes. Fuck this conversation. Fuck him. Now he was going to have to get his 1000 thread count sheets specially cleaned. This was NOT his night.

 

              “Peter…Peter, I…”, the voice choked and paused. “Peter, I know what you think of me and I do not blame you. I know that we will never be able to fix us, but I swear to you I didn’t know…I didn’t know. Everything I’ve done over the past two decades has been about bringing them down. I know you don’t believe me, but listen to my heartbeat Peter. Listen to it! Everything I’ve ever done, I did it for you…Peter, please…”.

 

              “Fuck you, Christopher,” Peter said in an icy voice. “You’ve had every opportunity to kill them countless times for two decades. Spare me the cleansing of your conscience.” He’d never admit it, but that tremor in Christopher’s voice, the pain…it cut down to Peter’s very soul, or at least whatever was left of it. He didn’t want to continue this conversation. The longer he heard Chris talk the more he _wanted_. And he hated himself for the _wanting_ and _needing_. Anger, sarcasm, wit, and charm. That was his armor. Chris found a way around and beneath all that far too easily.

 

              “Peter, the boy is Derek’s mate,” Chris stated flatly. He sounded defeated and exhausted. “The testing was conclusive. They matched with a 99.6% accuracy. You know what that means.”

 

 _True Mates_.

 

Oh, Peter was all too familiar of what that meant. His own match percentage had been a 97.8%--anything above 92% was considered perfect. People started throwing around the label ‘true mate’ once it got above 96%. It was exceedingly rare. The larger supernatural community liked to believe that it meant those involved in a match _that_ high, could only be for each other. There would be no one else. Peter knew that was a total crock of horse shit. It hadn’t stopped his _true mate_ from marrying someone else because _daddy_ hadn’t approved. It hadn’t stopped him from spawning a child.

 

Silently, Peter repeated the mantra he was by now very familiar with: his mate was dead, he died in the fire.

 

              “Tell me, _Christopher_. Just why should I subject my nephew to the hell that is ‘true mates’? It has worked out so well for my family. Derek is in no position to take a mate. He may have dealt with that little stunt _your sister_ pulled on him, but he has no interest. So again Christopher, while this was a lovely chat and I’ve so enjoyed rehashing old memories. Fuck. You.” Peter moved to hang up his cell phone. He was over it. And he needed a fucking drink.

 

              “Peter! Wait!”, Chris shouted through the line. Peter hesitated to hang up. Chris sounded desperate.  “Peter…this boy has no hunter connections, nothing at all even connecting him to the supernatural aside form a best friend who is a lone beta wolf. He may as well be completely human, but his bloodwork is showing astronomical potential. They want him for something. I don’t know why—you know that I’ve stepped away from the inner workings of the Bureau, but I know enough to see that this is big. Whatever they’re planning is big. Gerard hasn’t made a move in years. This could be the biggest chance to stop this madness. Peter…”, Chris’s voice tapered off and returned to that needy, whiney sound that made Peter’s spine tingle with want.

“Peter, I need this to be over. I need this finished and I need you to do it. And then…and then I need you to end it. I can’t keep going like this Peter…I…I swear I won’t even ask you to make it quick. I just need this to be over. I can’t keep going without you. I can’t fix it, but I can give you this. Please, Peter…please…”, Chris begged.

 

Peter fought to keep his eyes dry. This was the longest conversation he’d had with his mate in nearly twenty years (‘Your mate is dead,’ a voice in his head reminded). He _ached_. He wanted to make that pain in Christopher’s voice go away, but he couldn’t let go of his anger. Chris had made his choices. He may have lived to regret them, but that didn’t change anything. It couldn’t change anything. The die had been cast. They’d lost. Now they each had to live with it. Peter moved on autopilot as the words came tumbling out of his mouth.

“You will not be picking us up in Sacramento. Send someone else. The next time I see you Christopher, I’ll rip out your throat.” Peter said it with such finality that he almost fooled himself. He hung up the phone and threw it across the room—shattering the screen against the wall. He didn’t even care.

He glanced at the clock, not even ten minutes had passed. He rolled out of bed and swept on a robe. He wasn’t sure why he had agreed to go. He wondered briefly why he had never even considered that Christopher might be setting them up. He hated himself for it, but even now, he trusted Christopher with his life. Why go back to California? For Derek? Peter knew it was going to be a battle just to get him to accept. For revenge? No. No, none of those. Peter knew. None of those and Peter knew, but he’d never admit it. He exited his bedroom heading to wake his nieces and nephew, his heart beating a little louder than usual.

 

…*…

 

He woke Laura first. Peter would need her to help him convince Derek that this was a good idea. Despite his own terrible experience, Peter knew that having a mate was special. A so-called ‘true mate,’ even more. Derek deserved this and perhaps it would help him to heal. When Derek was 15 years old, Kate Argent had seduced the young, insecure wolf. Through his research into Talia’s death, Peter had discovered that the Argents (through the BMAC) had started manufacturing a synthetic formula that mimicked mating pheromones. Derek had never stood a chance. He’d enthusiastically welcomed Kate into his life—they all had—no one suspecting that the sister of Peter’s own (dead) mate would collect family secrets and turn the tables on them. Ultimately, eight werewolves and 3 humans had died in that fire. Plus, Peter’s mate, he reminded himself.

Peter had questioned for months after discovering Kate’s betrayal and the synthetic formula if anything between he and Christopher had even been real. It had taken him years to come to grips with it all and attempt to move on with his life. He sought solace in revenge—and damn, if he wasn’t good at it. Peter had tried to help Derek cope with it all. They had all gone to counseling, but Derek had just withdrawn more. As a boy, Derek had been a romantic. He wore his heart on his sleeve and was open, honest, and unabashed with his affection. Kate and the loss of his family and turned him inward, sullen, angry, and withdrawn. He’d thrown himself into weight lifting, reading, and drawing.

It had taken ten years for Derek to even attempt to venture out of his protective shell. It hadn’t gone well. From Peter’s standpoint, Derek just didn’t trust himself or his instincts. There had been a string of poor quality relationships that had done far more harm than good. Now 33-years old, Derek had withdrawn from any kind of romantic relationships. He focused on his work as an architect, physical exercise, and managing his small pack of mangy ingrate teenagers.

Peter, Laura, and Derek had all been born Alphas—Cora, a Beta. All three of them could have gone off on their own and formed individual packs, but after the shared tragedy of losing family (and Peter’s loss of his mate), they had stuck together. Peter had no desire to build his no pack, preferring the company of his family and moving in the shadows. Laura was too busy with her _activities_ to find a mate or build a pack. Peter did not approve of what she got up to and often pointed to their family history in an effort to dissuade her the more dangerous elements of her job, but he also understood why Laura had wanted to continue her mother’s legacy within the Resistance. He just ensured she did so quietly and as safely as possible—he would not have his years of work building up a façade of a BMAC-friendly werewolf pack flushed down the toilet for her incompetence.

Peter idly wondered why Chris hadn’t just contacted Laura. He had to know of her involvement through his Resistance contacts. Surely it wouldn’t have been that difficult for him to reach out, but no. Christopher had to wake _him_ up, ruin _his_ night, make _him_ feel things that he didn’t want to think about.

Of the three remaining Hale Alphas, Derek had been the only one to experience the drive to create a pack. Peter supposed it was Derek’s instinct to build up the family that was lost—to somehow atone for deaths he still blamed himself for. Peter just wished he’d turned individuals who were slightly more stable than a group of moody teenagers. It was unusual to have so many alphas sharing a space and essentially being part of one pack--unusual yes, but not unheard of, especially if they were family.

Peter reached Laura’s door and knocked loudly. A sleepy grumble from the other side was all he needed before sweeping into the room. Laura was sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes.

 

“What the hell, Peter?”, her tired voice mumbled. “I was having a really great dream.”

 

“Be that as it may, dear one. You need to get your ass out of bed and help me rouse your brother. We’re leaving,” Peter responded tersely. He flipped on the light to Laura’s room and marched over to her closet to pull out her suitcase.

“Oh my God Peter, turn off the damn light!”, Laura yelled. She threw a pillow at him, which her uncle easily caught. Peter set the suitcase on her bed.

 

“Wakey, wakey, dear one. Your boss called.”, Peter teased.

 

“My boss…?”, Laura was too tired for her brain to catch up to what Peter was saying.

 

“Yes, Chris Argent called.” Laura was immediately more awake. “He has requested that you, Derek, and I make our way to California immediately. Our flight leaves in a little less than 2 hours. We need to be walking out the door in 15 minutes,” Peter said. Laura quickly rolled out of bed and began throwing things into the suitcase, rushing around the room to gather up what she needed.

 

“What did he want?”, she asked Peter while sorting through laundry she hadn’t gotten around to washing, trying to find what was still somewhat clean and could be worn.

 

“Apparently, the other Argents are up to something. They’re making a move. Something to do with a newly presented being—who just so happens to have tested positively as Derek’s mate,” Peter said with a smirk.

 

“WHAT?! Does he know? Oh my God! Did Chris say—“, Laura stopped when Peter’s face pinched when she mentioned Chris’s name. She paused in her frantic packing and came over to her uncle, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Peter…are you okay? I know you haven’t talked to… _him_ in years. What can I do?”

              Peter sighed. “I’ll be fine, Laura,” he said gently. “I don’t want to talk about it or think about it. Or really anything about it…but he said that this could be pivotal for bringing the whole thing down…and…well, I just want to know that all this is over.”

Laura drew Peter into a quick hug and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll be by your side the entire time, okay?”, she told him.

Peter nodded and gently scent marked her quickly. He and Laura were quite close. Although he was her uncle, Peter was only six years older than her. She had shared his need for revenge and had been helpful in ferreting out information on the fire and what Talia had been up to in those final months. Peter didn’t press her on those details—it was safer for the both of them that way. Laura needed her secrets.

“How are we going to convince Derek to come?”, Peter asked.

Laura paused for a moment. “We’re not going to tell him about the mate. I’ll wake him up. We can tell him that the BMAC has matched us with a newly bitten werewolf in need of a pack. They’ve been rolling out that program in the past few months. That will get him to California and we can hope the rest will take care of itself.”

“He’s not going to like that, Laura. Do we really want to make him feel like we’re betraying him?”, Peter asked. “Besides, didn’t you tell me that their new matching program for the newly bitten was just a cover for placing spies in packs they suspected of not being loyal?”

“Yes, that’s what Chr—that’s what we think, yes.”, Laura said. “I don’t like it either, but if this is a chance to take the Argents down and if the testing is real—then, well…doesn’t he deserve to be happy?”

“Even if he doesn’t want to be?”, Peter asked.

“He needs a mate, Peter. It’ll do him good.”, she said.

 

“That’s not for you to decide.”, came the voice from the hallway.

 

Laura and Peter jerked around to see Derek standing in the doorway. He was bare-chested, wearing black sleep pants, with his muscular arms folded across his hairy chest. His eyes were glowing a deep red and his face was twisted into an angry scowl.

 

“Watch out Derek,” Laura teased, “if you’re not careful, your face will freeze that way.”

 

Derek scowled at her, raised his eyebrows in an expression of pure judgment. “I don’t want a mate. I’m not interested. I would appreciate it if the two of you would leave me out of all your future scheming.” He turned around to walk away.

 

“Derek Samuel Hale,” Peter called with a chilly calmness, his bright blue eyes bled with the alpha red, shining as if they were on fire. Peter was tired. His sleep had been interrupted. He had had to speak to that...asshole this evening. Peter was done. He had no more fucks to give. “You will be going to California to see this young man. If you do not want him as a mate, then so be it. But you will be meeting him, and whether he becomes your mate or not, he will likely be returning with us here. The other option currently available to him would leave him raped, abused, and likely dead within a month or two. Talia Hale raised a better son than that. I do not give a flying fuck if you want a mate or not. You don’t have to take one, but you WILL do your duty or so help me I will find a necromancer to bring your mother back solely to kick your ass.” Peter was seething. He knew it was a low blow, invoking his sister. He wasn’t sure why he was so adamant that Derek go. He didn’t know this boy and he needed to keep his family as far away from the politics of the Bureau and the Resistance as he could. Deucalion, while a monster, was not his problem. But Peter knew a little something about being abandoned by your mate. And he would **not** be seeing his nephew go down that path.

Derek had frozen while Peter spoke. He had paled when Peter brought up his mother, but he was also stubborn and committed to his resolve. He wanted to keep walking back to his room. Go back to bed. Peter’s yelling earlier had woken him up. His company was in the midst of negotiating a stressful contract with a firm trying to build a mass housing project, Derek had taken lead on the project. Needless to say, he had not been sleeping well the past few weeks and the heightened noise in the house and disturbed his restless sleep. But he hesitated. 

From the set of his shoulders and firm stance, Peter could tell that he had not fully convinced Derek, he needed another push. He didn’t want to have to go _there_. God, he would. But he really did not want to. He took a deep breath. “Derek.”, Peter said quietly in a voice that promised terrible things if it was not heeded immediately. “You will not do to your mate what was done to me. You. Will. Not. I will not ask you to mate the boy, you don’t even have to spend time with him after he is in our care, but you will come with us to retrieve him and you will respect him. The match was 99.6% Derek. That alone is _insane_. If you don’t want him after meeting him and you can’t stand him being here, then we will find a safe place for him. Perhaps Satomi’s pack. But, you _will be coming_.”

Slowly, Derek turned around, walking back to his room and quickly packing a bag. He brokered no arguments with Peter or his sister. Derek felt like Peter had clawed his stomach out. He knew that Peter and Laura were aware why he didn’t want a mate. He knew that they cared for him and would never push him into something, but he still resented this. He never wanted a mate. Not after Kate...or Paige. Mates felt too much like having your choices taken from you, and Derek had dealt with enough of that already. He also hurt for what Peter had implied; he could not imagine putting another soul through what Peter had gone through after the fire, or what he himself had experienced. But he could not deny, he was not a good choice to be anyone’s mate. Perhaps, they could find the boy a suitable choice after getting him out of immediate danger. Whatever that danger even was--Peter hadn't explained and he wouldn't ask. 

Derek retreated into his thoughts, saying nothing and glaring out the window all the way to the airport.

 

…*…

 

Stiles woke up. He was groggy and hadn’t slept well. His arms and legs ached. He tried to bring a hand to his face to wipe the sleepiness from his eyes, but couldn’t reach; the sound of a chain rattling jarring him awake. He tried to sit up, but realized he couldn’t. Chains secured his arms and legs to the bed he’d fallen asleep in last night. How the hell had he slept through someone doing that?, he wondered. At least he was still in the same room. From the corner of the room, Stiles heard a light chuckle.

“Oh Stiles, I wouldn’t bother with that. You’re not going anywhere pretty,” a man’s voice said. He had a British accent. When he stepped into the light Stiles could see that he was about medium height, a chiseled jawline, and light brown hair. He was smiling dangerously.

“Who…who are you?”, Stiles stammered.

The man laughed again, his eyes flashing red. “My name is Deucalion, Stiles. And you, pretty, are my mate. We’re going to have so much fun together.”

Stiles paled and inhaled deeply, trying to calm is panicking chest. The scent that hit him was all wrong. It smelled of mustard seed and mold. Stiles looked the alpha in the face and felt the panic begin to consume him. Something had gone wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've already read the Prologue and Chapter 1 before 05/8/2018, you might want to quickly glance through the ending few paragraphs of them again as I've made some minor edits. Christopher was not initially going to be the identity of our mystery caller, but it just sort of happened in the writing process and I think it works well for things happening further down the line--I also added something minor Claudia does in the prologue that I am ashamed of forgetting to do when I first wrote it. 
> 
> I'd love to hear what ya'll think of this and your thoughts of what you'd like to see happen/what you think will happen. I have a pretty clear trajectory of where I think this story is going, but there is quite a bit of wiggle room in some areas. I can't decide if I'm happy with this chapter yet. A lot of it didn't come out like I anticipated and some of it still feels clunky. I may let it sit for a day or two and then come back and clean things up--nothing major though. I just can't decide if Peter, Laura, and Derek feel right to me. 
> 
> Thank you all for your kind support and feedback. Comments and kudos = love.
> 
> Also. Smut is happening next chapter. You have been warned.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slower update friends. This chapter was a bit of a beast and life happened. 
> 
> TW: non-consensual masturbation and marking, threats of violence, emotional/mental manipulation, consensual bonding under duress, chastity device, gag, breeding bench, hood, bondage, oral sex, anal sex, knotting

Marin Morrell’s eyes snapped open. Looking out her bedroom window, she note the rising sun just beginning to inch towards the horizon; stretching, but not quite there. Just above the horizon line, a band of pinkish-gray light stretched across the sky. _‘The Belt of Venus_ ,’ she thought. She hoped that the sky this morning was a good omen for this day—she could use the morning star on her side today of all days.

              As she rolled over and prepared to drag her body out of bed and head into the office, Marin noticed a faint buzzing vibrating within her body. A pang of dread clenched her stomach as she took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and opened herself to her senses and the natural world around her. She gasped. The dread in her stomach turned into a sharp pain as her eyes flew open. _Someone had crossed one of her wards_.

              Marin raced over to her bag across the room, searching through a variety of talismans until she found the small piece of wood she needed. _Oak_ —known for its properties of protection. This piece of wood happened to come from the same tree that the door casing to Stiles and the McCall’s rooms were built from. She rubbed her thumb over the rune carved into the wood’s surface, causing it to glow briefly. Her room burst with a smell she was all too familiar with and an underlying musk that Marin knew was only produced by an Alpha werewolf. _Deucalion_. He had crossed into one of the rooms and had yet to exit. She reached for her cell phone and immediately began dialing as her mind raced to adjust her plan to the developing situation.

             

“What do you want Marin?” Chris Argent asked. He sounded tired and hung over.

 

              Ignoring Argent’s tone, Marin jumped straight to business—the situation had become urgent. “Do you have any of the synthetic formula your family manufactured? The kind that covers up scent?” she asked. Glancing at the clock on her wall, she quickly estimated travel times. The Hales should be arriving within the hour. She needed to get to the Bureau’s offices immediately. Time was already running out. id

 

              “Why do you need to cover your scent? Can’t you just do a druidic ritual to—”

 

              “There isn’t time for that Chris! I need that formula. Do you have it or not?” Marin cut him off. She probably _did_ have the time to do the ritual that would mask her scent and heartbeat, but she didn’t have the energy to expend. If Stiles was going to get through the next few hours, she would need her resources at their full strength.

 

              “Yes, I have some here. When—” Argent tried to respond. Marin could hear him getting flustered, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.

             

              “Meet me at the gas station on the corner of State Street and Hyacinth in ten minutes. It’s urgent, Chris. Valack moved earlier than I anticipated. Deucalion is making his move,” Marin said into the phone. Her mind was already being pulled in several directions at once. Rapidly moving around her apartment, she gathered whatever she thought she’d need—grateful that her assistant had insisted she leave a change of clothes at the office, along with several of her more common druidic supplies. Not waiting for Chris’s reply, she hung up the phone, tossed it into her bag, and raced out the door. She had a demon wolf to stop.

 

…*…

 

Stiles took a deep breath through his mouth, hoping to avoid swallowing anymore of the putrid smell the man was emanating into the room. He needed to calm himself down as much as possible; having a clear head would be essential to getting himself out of this mess—whatever this mess was. Now was _not_ the time for a panic attack.

              The man’s eyes flashed a deep ruby as his gaze skirted down Stiles’s taut body. _‘Werewolf,’_ Stiles thought, and an Alpha at that. The man’s gaze made him feel slimy. He wished his hands were free so he could pull down his shirt from where it had rucked up to his chest, exposing his stomach. He didn’t think his personal modesty was of much concern to his unwelcome visitor. Stiles closed his eyes, willing himself to _calm down_. He began counting backwards from ten over and over as the wolf stared and chuckled quietly.

              “Do I amuse you?” Stiles asked haughtily. He needed to remain calm, but also fuck this shit. This situation was _exactly_ what he had been terrified would happen when he’d been sent to the Bureau of Magical Abilities and Creatures facility. Marin had _promised_ that he would get complete control over who he mated and now this snoody-snood wanted to come along and just claim him as his personal toy? Stiles’s week had been far to long to deal with this utter nonsense.

              “Oh pretty! Have I upset you?” the wolf asked in breathily. Leaning forward, the man closed his eyes and inhaled a deep breath of Stiles’s scent. Deucalion opened his eyes when he finished smelling—Stiles noticed they were an even deeper red now.

              “Now why would you think that?” Stiles responded sarcastically. “Is it the chains? Well, let me tell you. You’re obviously not familiar with all that is the goddess that is Rhianna, but you should know that chains and whips excite me.” Stiles hoped his sarcasm and banter would keep the wolf talking long enough for him to find a way out of these chains. _‘There is no way you’re escaping an Alpha werewolf, dude. Even if you are able to get out of these chains. He’s faster than you_ ,’ Stiles thought. Hopefully he could delay Deucalion long enough until someone came looking. He tried to move his wrists subtlety to see if there was any give in the length. There was absolutely no way he’d be able to reach the bobby pin he always kept with him in his bag (he never knew when he’d have to pick a lock)—the floor was too far, and from the looks of the locks the werewolf had chosen, Stiles doubted he’d be able to pick them.

              Deucalion burst into a hearty laugh at Stiles’s comment. “Oh, my pretty. You are going to be just _delicious_. We will get along smashingly.” The wolf moved from the corner of the room and took a seat on the bed next to Stiles’s hip. His hand reached out to caress his bare stomach, the wolf’s fingers elongating into claws while tracing delicately from the belly button up Stiles’s barely visible abdominals, and back down again. “I suggest,” the wolf began cooly, “that you stop your struggling, pretty. You are not going anywhere and I am afraid no one is coming for you today. I thought…,” Deucalion trailed off as he pushed his claws more firmly into Stiles’s stomach, caushing him to cry out in pain as the sharp claws left red pricks of blood from where they dug into his skin. “I thought we could use this time to get to know one another.” Deucalion smirked at Stiles and resumed caressing his stomach. With his other hand, the wolf extended his claws and began tracing Stiles’s lips softly.

              “Now that I have your attention, pretty, you are going to refrain from speaking while I talk. I would _hate_ for something to happen to these beautiful lips. I have plans for them later. Do you understand?” the wolf asked in a eerily calm voice. Stiles did not respond (he wasn’t even sure if Deucalion _wanted_ a verbal response), instead he pursed his lips tightly, uncomfortable with the bad touch going on, and leveled his fiercest glare at the man. Deucalion laughed, “Oh puppy, you are going to be so much fun to break.”

              Deucalion stood up from the bed, briefly removing his claws as he clambered over Stiles’s body, straddling him just above the knee caps. The wolf’s thighs were hard slabs of muscle that he tightened, trapping Stiles’s legs from making any movement. He returned to caressing and tracing Stiles’s stomach and lips. _“Good boy_ ,” Deucalion whispered as Stiles took his weight.

              Stiles shivered involuntarily, causing the wolf above him to chuckle again. A wave of nausea and anger coursed through his body. How dare he use _those words_. Over the years, Stiles had come to love and appreciate everything that was his kinky self. He knew what he liked. He was good, giving, and game—Dan Savage had taught him well. Stiles was something of an experimentalist. He’d dabbled in pretty much everything from daddy kink to impact play to orgasm control. He knew he liked things that his friends would give him strange looks over. Hell, Scott had run from the room with his fingers in his ears yelling ‘La La La!’ the last time Stiles had tried to talk about his most recent sexual encounter—the _child_. But _those words_. Those words were practically sacred to Stiles Stilinski. To him, there were few words in the English language more meaningful, more powerful, and more full of pure adoration than being told he was a good boy. Stiles could forgive _a lot_ of things, but this fucker was being blasphemous and making him feel icky about a concept near and dear to him. Dude was going to pay.

              “Now, where were we?” Deucalion asked. “Oh yes. You pretty, are going to be my mate. I have been told that you are new to the supernatural so I will explain what that means for you.” The wolf leaned closer to Stiles’s face, looking directly into his eyes. “Your life, my pretty? It is mine now. Every decision made. Anything given to you. Anything you do. Anywhere you go. All of it, will be provided by and approved by _me_. You should feel honored pretty. You are about to be a part of one of the strongest werewolf packs in the world, and you my sweet, are going to help us become even _more perfect_. They tell me that you are quite powerful, but no one seems to be able to identify _what exactly_ you are. Now, I have my suspicions, pretty, but you do not need to worry your sweet little head about any of that. By the time I am finished, you will not need to worry about any silly magics.” The claws tracing Stiles’s stomach turned upwards and began slicing slowly through his shirt, turning it to ribbons and exposing his chest. Stiles wanted to panic, but didn’t want to give the wolf the satisfaction. He could feel the terror desperately wanting to claw its way out of his throat. The longer the wolf touched him, the more he felt like acid was being poured onto his body, soaking into his pores. He desperately wanted to deflect and make a snarky comment about Deucalion’s monologuing—I mean really?!? Could he get any more cliché?—but he refrained. He focused on breathing deeply and the hope that _someone_ would come for him to stop this madness.

              Apparently not yet fulfilled with hearing the sound of his own voice, Deucalion continued. “You will have an honored position in my pack. With your magic at my disposal, the possibilities are _endless_. If you behave and comply with my wishes without too much lip—though, I sincerely hop that does not go away _completely, pretty_. It will be _so much fun_ to play with—then you will be rewarded. Please me and no other wolf will touch you and I will ensure that any… _outbursts_ are directed towards someone less…fragile than you. Stiles watched in horror as the wolf withdrew his hands and began palming himself through his pants. When the wolf’s erection was sizable, he began undoing his belt and slowly lowered his pants down to his muscled thights. Deucalion was not wearing any underwear, his penis filling up with blood as it was exposed to the air—a drop of precum gathered around the foreskin. Under different circumstances, Stiles might have appreciated the piece of male anatomy, but unfortunately the douchecanoe it was attached to was a bad-touch rapey maniac. No thank you.

              “Now,” Deucalion purred in a tone Stiles assumed was supposed to sound seductive, but just came across as creepy, disgusting, and trying _way too hard_ ,” there is only the manner of your claiming to address.” The wolf began stroking his erection with one hand, the other tightly gripping Stiles’s neck—forcing his head up to meet Deucalion’s gaze. Stiles felt sick. Those deep red eyes were going to give him nightmares. “Here is what is going to happen, my pretty. I am going to mark you with my cum. It will soak into your skin and start to reactivate your heat. But I know _how eager_ you are for me, so we are going to give you a little pill that will help flush those nasty suppressants from your system and jump start your heat more easily. My loyal second Ennis is going to take you downstairs to one of the mating rooms. You _might_ want to take note of him, pretty. Displease me and Ennis will get to play with you first,” Deucalion threatened, his stroking got faster. “Ennis is going to prepare to my… _tastes_. I want you gagged, hooded, strapped to a breeding bench with that beautiful ass of yours in the air, just waiting for me to come in and take you. He’s going to add a chastity device to keep your little cock locked away—I cannot have you cumming on our first mating, you need to learn your place as an Omega bitch. The breeding bench will keep you safe. We would not want you to injure yourself from thrashing around while in the bouts of heat, now would we pretty?”

              The wolf groaned above him, and Stiles felt the scalding splash of liquid across his stomach and chest as Deucalion ejaculated. He wanted to throw up. Tears had pooled in his eyes and begun streaming down his face as the wolf had described the hell that he would face. It wasn’t just the physical violation that Stiles feared—it was the mental and emotional violation that Deucalion would cause him by raping him with things that under different circumstances, Stiles would have fully enjoyed. Stiles _loved_ chastity and orgasm control. He had a breeding kink a mile wide and had never had a sexual partner that wanted to indulge it. Hoods and gags were typically soft limits for him, at least until greater trust had been established, but he wouldn’t have been opposed necessarily. But here was this sick, twisted bastard coming along and taking that joy, excitement, and freedom he experienced during a consensual scene and stripping it away from him.

A few tears escaped as Deucalion tucked his now flaccid penis back into his pants and buttoned them back up. The wolf began to rub his semen into Stiles’s skin, marking him with the scent of his very essence. Deucalion pulled a small red pill from his pocket and pressed it against Stiles’s lips. “Now,” the wolf droned on in a smug satisfied voice, “be a good boy and open those pretty little lips for me.”

             

              Stiles clenched his jaw shut tightly. He would do nothing of the sort.

 

              Deucalion chuckled and used his free hand to force Stiles’s jaw open, pushing the pill to the back of Stiles’s mouth with his fingers. Recognizing he was facing a losing battle, Stiles was determined to _not go quietly_. He snapped his teeth shut on Deucalions fingers, biting down **hard**. Dropping the pill in the back of Stiles’s throat, the wolf retched his had back and used the other to smack Stiles across the face, claws extended. Stiles choked on the pill as he tried to force it out of his throught, but the wolf began massaging his throat, forcing him to swallow before he had the chance to spit it out into the bastard’s face.

              Sharp pain and the trickle of blood ran down Stiles’s cheek as Deucation seethed into his face. “That was not a smart move Stiles. You will pay for that my little bitch. I think we’ll use the _special_ locks on you.” The wolf swung his hips off of Stiles’s prone body and opened the door to the room. Stiles saw a giant, bald werewolf waiting in the hallway. “Ennis,” Deucalion said, “prepare the boy. I need to speak with Valack and Gerard before we can proceed with this morning’s entertainment.” With that the wolf swept out of the room.

              As Ennis approached the bed and leveled Stiles with a menacing grin, any hope of escape while this man moved him evaporated. He thought he could feel the pill already taking effect. His body was starting to get warm again and his limbs were stiffening up. Stiles doubted he would be able to move much on his own. Stiles’s mind raced for _anything_ that could help him. He would not be giving up. He would never give up.

              As the wolf disconnected the chains and lifted his body over his shoulder, his mind quieted, only one thought returning:

 

              _Help me. Please, someone help me._

 

…*…

 

Derek Hale jerked his eyes open. He was breathing rapidly and felt on the edge of an enormous amount of panic. Derek’s wolf was restless and angry, something had called out to it, but it was frustratingly trapped in the flying metal box and could not reach whatever had woken him. He sat up from his seat against the window of the airplane; he, Laura, and Peter were in their final descent into Sacramento. He felt a hand gently rest on his forearm squeezing slightly. Glancing over, he saw Laura and Peter looking at him with concern.

 

              “Derek…are you okay? Your heart beat was erratic and you wouldn’t stop mumbling in your sleep,” Laura asked softly. She slowly stroked his arm with her hand, trying to gentle and calm him down. Derek focused on her even heart beat and breathing, willing his own body under control.

              “Nightmare…I think it was a nightmare. I don’t remember…there was a voice,” Derek stammered. Whatever he had been dreaming before waking so abruptly had seemed so real. That voice! It made his wolf howl and pull at his insides—like it was trying to forcibly crawl its way out of his stomach. There had been so much fear, but strength too.

              Peter looked at Derek very seriously, pinning his nephew with his bright blue eyes. “Derek, do you remember anything else? This could be very important.”

              “Nnnno,” Derek was getting flustered. He did not like it when his wolf became agitated, he prided himself on his control; a migraine was starting to set in at his temple. “How much longer until we land?” he asked.

              “About five minutes or so, but Derek—” Laura started.

              “We need to get off this plane. Something is wrong,” Derek said. He wanted to blame his wolf’s restlessness on the confined space of the aircraft, the stress of travel, and being around unfamiliar _people_ , but something had called out to his wolf. Whatever it had been, something was very very wrong with it. Derek focused on his breathing, trying to keep from wolfing out. He could feel it there, right beneath his skin ready to burst forth.

              Peter signaled a stewardess, explaining to her that they needed to be among the first to exit the plane as Derek was quite ill. The stewardess had taken one glance at Derek’s pale, strained, and angry expression and agreed immediately—hurrying away from the Hales to prepare for landing. Derek’s wolf was demanding to howl back to the something, calling that it would join it soon. It made Derek queasy and nervous. He was not comfortable with how possessive his wolf was being over some unidentified force. He briefly thought it could be a connection to this supposed mate—he knew that’s what Laura and Peter were thinking, but he refused to acknowledge that right now.

 

              _‘I’m coming. I’m coming_ ,’ he kept repeating.

 

…*…

 

Marin stood silently in the hall corridor outside of Stiles’s room. Less than five feet away from her stood Ennis, arms folded over his massive chest while he watched the hallway for activity. Thanks to Chris’s synthetic she had picked up earlier in her mad dash to make it to the BMAC Sacramento headquarters, he could not smell her or hear her heartbeat, and thanks to her own runes and talismans she was completely invisible to any living being on _this plane_ of existence. With the heightened senses the talismans temporarily granted Marin, she could hear Deucalion taunt Stiles and the sick perversion he inflicted upon his body. She was furious—both with the wolf inside the room whom she had once known so well, and herself. She had sworn to protect Stiles, and right now she was failing him. She should have killed Deucalion years ago.

              Marin Morrell knew Deucalion well. _Intimately_. She had been his pack’s emissary years ago when the war first began. For many of those years, she had been his lover, constantly by his side as he had started to accumulate power, killing off packs, and gathering powerful alphas into his own pack. She thought she had loved him once. Her idealistic, younger (stupid) self, had seen Deucalion as a visionary. He preached of a utopia and more balanced order for werewolves and their packs; a perfection that would bring balance and stability to so much of the magical world.

              Deucalion’s rise to power was right at the height of werewolf resistance to the new Bureau of Magical Abilities and Creatures. BMAC needed the werewolf packs to cooperate—if they fell in line, the united force of the packs could be used to police and implement the Bureau’s policies and agenda. Most of the werewolves refused, not wanting to be the lapdogs of those in power and forced to police their neighbors and allies. Times were chaotic. People began dying and it looked like the problems of the supernatural world were going to spill over and start impacting the humans. Her druidic upbringing and training demanded that Marin maintain _the balance_. Young and foolish, she had thought Deucalion’s way could be that balance. Her hands were far from clean in the chaos his so-called ‘Alpha Pack’ had inflicted upon a wide variety of magical communities. Deuc, Ennis, Kali, and the others in his pack had been highly successful as BMAC’s taskforce in curbing resistant werewolf communities and keeping anyone in line who hinted at rebellion.

              By the time she could see the Bureau’s real agenda and the monster Deucalion—and by extension herself—and become, it was too late. She’d quietly negotiated leaving her position as pack emissary for the opportunity to work in the Bureau’s psychology and psychiatry division at the California headquarters. She’d convinced Deuc that it was too big of an opportunity to turn down. After reaching out to her brother, and later Chris Argent, and attempting to make amends—of which, she never thought she’d be able to do fully—she had begun feeding information through them to the Resistance. It had been ideal really. She had been a trusted member of one of the pivotal forces behind the Bureau’s enforcement of their agenda. She was skilled at covering her tracks and keeping herself out of any suspicion. She couldn’t afford to mess this situation up. She needed to help Stiles, but if at all possible, she needed to do so without anyone _knowing_ it had been _her_.

              If her cover was blown, she’d have to go deep underground. That wouldn’t be the end of the world, but it would mean she would be useless in stopping anything Valack or the others at BMAC in Sacramento did. Whatever was going on with Stiles, she was positive was part of some kind of larger move by Valack or Gerard Argent.

              As Stiles’s bedroom door opened and Deucalion walked down the hall—presumably to go to the administration offices two floors below, if what she heard was correct—she glared at his retreating form. Plotting and planning how she would deal with _that problem_ in the future. She watched as Ennis gathered a paralytic Stiles into his arms and headed down the hall in the opposite direction, heading towards the mating rooms. She briefly wondered if she should stay behind to wake the McCalls. She’d already checked the records for the mating rooms and knew where Ennis would be heading. She had wondered why the McCalls hadn’t already woken up—it wasn’t as if Deucalion was being particularly quiet. She reached out with her senses to examine the wood around the bases of Scott and Melissa’s rooms. Some kind of powder had been pushed into their rooms through the slot under the door. She couldn’t tell what it was without further examination, but from the sound of the steady heartbeats in both rooms and the slight smell of nightshade, she assumed it was some type of sleeping powder. The McCalls would be fine, but for now, they would be of no use to her.

              A bright flash of cloudy grey smoke filled the hallway as Ennis carried Stiles over his shoulder. The lack of reaction from Ennis lead her to assume that whatever it had been was not visible on the normal plane of vision—but with the talisman she wore to render herself invisible allowed her to walk on the plane of magic; with this talisman she could see castings that were normally invisible to the naked eye. Whatever that had been was centered around Stiles. The flash had been brief and was already dissipating into the air. Marin could have sworn she had heard words in that cloud of grey, but it had been gone too quickly for her to pick up. What was going on with this boy?, she wondered as she followed Ennis’s retreating figure down the hall and stairs to the mating rooms below.

              Marin did not have the strength to overpower an Alpha werewolf like Ennis. It would be useless for her to attempt a direct confrontation. Her power reserves were draining slowly from needing to maintain the invisibility. She continued planning while silently entering the mating room behind Ennis and Stiles. The large werewolf stripped Stiles of the rest of his clothing—tossing aside the torn up shirt, his briefs, and sleep pants. He began dressing up Stiles in the devices Deucalion had requested—Stiles, his body nearly limp from the pill, was unable to resist. The O-ring gag. A full leather gimp hood. A thick leather collar with d-rings. Ennis forced Stiles atop the room’s breeding bench. Attaching his ankles and wrists first, then the thick strap across his back and neck. Ennis fiddled with the bench, spreading Stiles’s thighs, arching his back, and lifting up his ass, bringing him into a classic present pose. Wanting to turn away to preserve Stiles’s dignity, Marin hesitated. She needed to have a complete understanding of everything Ennis did and couldn’t afford to not watch his every move. She watched Ennis attach the chastity device and then proceed to lock each of the latches encasing Stiles’s body with a type of lock she had not seen in the mating rooms before. She approached the breeding bench carefully to get a closer look. What she saw made her heart sink. Ennis had used breeding locks that were magicked on the gag, hood, collar, cage, and breeding bench. Those locks would be unbreakable—no magic or werewolf claw would open them—the locks didn’t even have keys made for them. Each lock was magicked to only open after the person being locked had been bred and bonded to whoever’s seed they had most recently come in contact with.

              Marin had hoped rescuing Stiles would have been as simple as getting Stiles out of the room, but he with those locks in place he would not be moving until someone bred and bonded him. This isn’t what she wanted for Stiles. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She began moving to Plan B. Ennis preparing Stiels to be defiled by Deucalion actually played quite well into her needs, he would make a convenient scapegoat. If the pack dynamics were as fraught within the Alpha Pack as they once were, then Deucalion would not hesitate to lash out at Ennis at the first provocation.

              When Ennis made his way to leave the room, Marin was ready. She opened a small bag she’d attached to her belt this morning and pulled out a small pinch of the deadly white powder. It was a rare form of wolf’s bane mixed with a few other plants and chemical compounds—mixed together, the powder would slow a werewolf’s heart and breathing to dangerous levels. Conveniently for her purposes, it would knock out Ennis for about an hour. When he woke, he’d be in a state of confusion and have short-term amnesia. He’d remember getting Stiles ready and standing guard waiting for Deucalion’s arrival, but everything afterwards would be blank. It wasn’t perfect. Perhaps she could move the breeding bench Stiles’s was locked in to a different room. It would buy some time, and if (gods be praised) the Hales arrived before Deucalion came looking for Stiles, then the mating could occur before the demon wolf could do a damn thing to stop it. The whole thing was risky, but she was out of options.

              If everything went well, from Deucalion’s standpoint it would look like Ennis had fucked up and placed Stiles in the incorrect room. If Deucalion’s infamous temper reared its ugly head at Ennis’s mistake, she doubted the bald Alpha would find himself with enough time to talk himself out of _that_ situation. With Stiles in a different room, there would be nothing stopping the mate Marin arranged for Stiles to meet today to come upon him, arriving earlier than expected. With Deucalion already jump starting Stiles’s heat, she’d be able to claim that there was nothing that could be done to stop a Alpha from claiming his mate with a match percentage _that high_. The Hale boy could claim he was overcome by the smell and proceeded with the mating before the proper paperwork could be processed. Deucalion wouldn’t be able to challenge it without revealing that he had illegally induced Stiles’s heat early— _that admission_ would cause a public relations nightmare for his pack and the BMAC. She would personally ensure that the media caught wind of the story…in fact…it might be a good idea to ensure that members of the press were already in the building. After all, it wasn’t everyday that someone presented as old as 28, let alone have one of the highest recorded matches in recent memory to a member of a werewolf family with ties to the local area.

              As Ennis walked by Marin’s invisible form, she blew the powder into his face. He sneezed, his expression becoming confused before dropping to the floor. Lights out. Marin moved quickly. The Hales needed to be contacted to communicate the urgency of the situation and get an estimated time of arrival. She had work to do.

 

…*…

 

Derek Hale’s wolf would not calm down. Peter had insisted on driving their rental car to the Bureau’s headquarters in Sacramento, but he was driving _too damn slow_. Derek was fighting the urge to leap from the vehicle, change into his wolf form and run the remaining distance. The feeling of fear Derek had sensed on the plane still buzzed in his head. He had no idea what was going on, but he was starting to admit that it was likely his supposed mate was involved. The closer they got to the Bureau’s building the more possessive his wolf became.

              He’d spent a long time thinking on the plane and was still very much at odds with his wolf. The rational, more human side of Derek’s psyche did not want a mate. He’d witnessed first hand what Peter had gone through and after Kate…and Paige…he didn’t know if he could ever truly trust someone so intimately that was not his family. The Hales had already lost so much, Derek was fairly content with his life, why open himself to potential misery? Besides, the way Peter and Laura had gone about getting him to come here and all this talk about destiny and _true mates_ made him feel like his choices were being taken away from him—that felt too much like what Kate had done to him and he _would not_ go through that again.

              Peter had a good point too, for what it mattered. Derek didn’t know the full extent of his mother and father’s activities after the war broke out—and frankly, he didn’t want to know. It was better to stay off of the BMAC’s radar than in the crosshairs, but he did know that his mother would be _appalled_ at him not taking action over a mate, regardless of whether that mate was in danger or not. Mates had been sacred to Talia Hale—their family had been blessed with many life-long pairings. It was unclear what the danger this mate was currently in. Derek had pressed Peter for further details when they landed in San Francisco, but it became clear that he didn’t know.

              If this person really was his _mate_ , then hopefully they would understand that he simply just wasn’t in a position to open himself up like that to anyone—to be vulnerable. The only way for this person to understand _that_ would be if he communicated it to them, and well…Derek wouldn’t be winning any awards on clear communication any time in the future. He knew it was a defense mechanism. He knew he would need to work through it. He just hadn’t met anyone yet who he though was worth working through it for. He had his job. He had his small pack. He had Peter, Laura, and Cora. He was…content. _His mother would have wanted more than that for him_.

              But anyone who had the misfortune of being his mate shouldn’t be punished for it (anymore than the matching itself, anyway). If this boy was in danger, he’d do what needed to be done to get him out of it, and then they’d figure it out. Deep in thought, Derek vaguely registered that Laura was talking on the phone urgently to someone.

              “What’s going on?” he asked Laura from the back seat of the rental vehicle.

              Laura had gone slightly pale. She glanced at Derek in the rear view mirror and scolded Peter. “Drive a bit faster please, we need to get there now.”

              Derek’s wolf was nearly howling with impatience. “What’s going on?” he asked again.

              Laura turned around to look at him. “My…contact said that whatever was being planned for your match was accelerated this morning. We need to act quickly once we reach the Bureau’s building. A Marin Morrell will be meeting us at the entrance,” Laura said. She looked hesitant to say anything else. Derek could hear that her heartbeat was steady, but he’d known her long enough when she was trying to hide something.

              “What aren’t you telling me? What does all of that even mean? What the hell is going on?” Derek asked, getting angry. His wolf whimpered, he needed out of the car.

              “What it means, dear nephew,” Peter began giving Derek a sharp glare from the rearview mirror, “is that you need to be ready to knot that boy as soon as we arrive.” Derek’s wolf perked up in _want_ , while the rest of him felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped on him.

              Derek paled and turned red. “You…you said I didn’t…you said I ddin’t have to take on a fucking mate if I didn’t want to. You SAID I COULD MEET HIM and we COULD FIGURE IT OUT! YOU—”

              “Yes, Derek,” Peter interrupted his nephew’s shouting. He could smell Derek’s nausea and fear. He understood where he was coming from. Derek had been hurt deeply and found it exceedingly difficult to trust, but he needed to stop fighting his own needs and desires. He needed to learn to admit when he needed something. He needed to learn to open up and be vulnerable. “Yes, I did say that Derek and it was the original plan, but if things have accelerated then the situation has gotten desperate and there won’t be any time for pleasantries.”

              “But I don’t want a mate Peter! How can you ask me to mate someone I don’t even know? Don’t you remember what happened after Kate? You’re asking me to walk right back into the same situation. And you haven’t even considered this kid’s feelings—”

              “He’s not a kid!” Laura interrupted. “He’s 28 years old. For god’s sake Derek! Do you have any idea how lucky you are to find your mate?”

              “He’s never met me Laura! Who says he is even going to want me. You…all of you are taking away our choices and that isn’t fucking right. I agreed to come. I agreed to help him get out of danger and help him get set up somewhere with whatever he needed, but I didn’t—“Derek was exasperated. He felt stressed and a little betrayed.

              “Derek,” Peter started gently. At some point they’d made it to the Bureau’s building and were parked near the entrance. A smartly dressed, stressed looking woman with dark brown skin and long dark hair was waiting by the door—she looked to be expecting them. “Derek, what if all he needs is you?” Peter asked. “There is a boy in there Derek. He needs your help and I am sorry, I truly am, but that help comes in the form of you mating him. It isn’t ideal. There will be problems, but we will be here to support you through them. Trust does not come easy, nephew. That boy isn’t going to trust you anymore than you’ll trust him, but right now he needs you. I don’t know what is going on here, Derek. But _my mate_ who I have not spoken to in nearly _twenty years_ would not have called me if it wasn’t big. You may not want this boy and when this is all said and done he may not want you, but right now Derek, right now he _needs you_.”

              Derek’s wolf howled. He was shaking and having difficulty getting his hand to move to open the car door. Peter was right. He was needed. Everything else could be figured out later. Right now he was needed. Peter reached into the back seat and took Derek’s hand. “I know you’re afraid and I know you’ve been hurt. Right now it probably feels like you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing. Derek. Go into that room and take a deep breath. Scent him. I promise you, everything will make sense after doing that. It’ll feel like coming home. And do not for a moment think that that isn’t something you deserve dear one, because you do. You deserve it all.”

              Derek looked into his uncle’s eyes, then glanced at his sister. She nodded and gave him a reassuring, watery smile. Shaking, Derek opened the door of the rental car and approached the door to the building.

 

              “Are you Derek Hale,” the woman asked.

 

              Derek straightened his shoulders and brought himself to his full height, putting on his best Alpha face he walked towards her, “Yes, I am Alpha Derek Hale.”

 

              “I trust you’ve been briefed on the situation?” she asked Derek as they walked inside the building. The woman moved quickly and efficiently—it seemed to Derek that they were taking back hallways to reach wherever they were going.

 

              “Only briefly,” came Derek’s terse response. The deeper they moved into the building, the more alert and restless Derek’s wolf became. Every corner rounded came the possibility of a potential threat. His instincts were getting stronger. _PROTECT. PROTECT. PROTECT._

              “There isn’t time to go into details, you’re going to have to—”

              Derek had had enough of being told what he _had_ to do today. “Can the boy still give consent? Is he lucid or is he already too deeply into heat?” Derek asked.

              The woman slowed and looked at him strangely. “Wha—his...his heat has been triggered, but it hasn’t progressed much. He’s completely lucid and in my professional medical opinion is capable of giving consent.” Derek listened to the woman’s heartbeat. It didn’t skip. She wasn’t lying. “But…well, he isn’t able to speak right now.”

              “What do you mean?” Derek asked, his wolf zeroing in on what the woman was saying. “What happened?”

              “There was an override done on the mating. They were trying to match him with someone else…they…prepared him to their liking. I’m sorry, but he cannot be removed from his position. They used breeding locks,” the woman told him. She had obviously spent a great deal of time around werewolves and was speaking to Derek with caution, recognizing an Alpha werewolf barely hanging onto control at the thought of a threatened mate.

              “What. Do. You. Mean.” Derek said in a deadly voice. His wolf was right near the surface, his eyes bleeding crimson.

              “It will be easier for you to see it,” came her only response. The woman stopped outside of a room. The hallway was empty except for the slouched body of another werewolf several doors down. “He’s in here, Alpha Hale,” she said. “I would urge you to…be expedient. I don’t know how much time you’re going to have. This could get messy.”

              Taking one final deep breath and hoping that he was making the right decision, Derek rolled his shoulders back and opened the door to the mating room.

 

…*…

 

As the stiffness of Stiles’s body left him sometime after Ennis had locked him to the bench and left the room, the panic had begun to set it. He vaguely remembered his bench being rolled down a hall and he thought he recalled Ms. Morrell trying to reassure him, but that was all a little fuzzy. The heat in his belly was getting stronger, but it felt wrong. Not like before coming to the BMAC. It felt like acid and mold, not a fire that could warm him as well as consume him with its heat. He was trying to focus on calming his breathing and pushing back the growing feeling of burning acid across his skin, when he heard the door open. His heart stopped. Deucalion must have arrived. It was about to begin.

 

Then, that smell reached Stiles’s nose and immediately a trickle of slick leaked from his hole. It was _that smell_. He’d know that smell _anywhere_. It made his blood _sing_. He tried to speak, to say something to this stranger who reminded Stiles of everything warm and good, but all that came out was a gurgled sound and more spit leaked from the gag forcing his mouth open. Stiles felt eyes on him and could hear footsteps approach the bench.

 

…*…

 

Derek was not prepared. When he entered the room he was hit with a wall of smells that both enchanted and infuriated him. It was the scent of _mate_ and _mine_ , but something had _polluted_ the smell of _his mate_. _Someone_ had tried to lay claim to _his mate_. The boy was covered in the scent of another wolf—it seeped and oozed in his skin and had Derek’s wolf ready to snap and snarl at whatever would dare challenge his claim. The scent drew Derek into the room, propelled by the urge _to get that smell off of his mate_. Underneath that rancid smell of mold, mustard, and mothballs, the young man in front of him smelled utterly delightful. He was the woods, his mother’s bread, and laughter. He smelled like late nights, old books, and early morning tea. Derek hadn’t known that laughter could have a smell, but this boy smelled… _playful_. Full of life. There was a hint of sorrow in there too, Derek would have to revisit that later.

There was a lingering smell of fear that just _would not do_. Derek **needed** to eradicate those other smells. He needed this boy before him to smell only of himself AND Derek. His wolf wanted to frolic in the scent, drink it up, and rube his entire body in it. This was _his_. It felt like coming home. The rational part of his brain pushed back against the wolf—he had to try _talking_ to the boy—he’d never forgive himself if he just mounted the boy and took. His wolf did not want to do any talking. Here was their mate, naked, and _presenting_. The overlying smell infuriated Derek, as did the knowledge that someone else had _seen his mate_ naked, and _touched him_ , and put this gear on him. The fear and lingering scent of another wolf drove Derek to circle his mate’s body in front of him, checking for any injuries. _PROTECT. PROTECT. PROTECT._

The boy had remained frozen while Derek circled, like prey sensing a predator. He was beautiful. His wolf was frustrated that his mate’s face was not visible—he wanted to look into his mate’s eyes. Moles doted the man’s naked back, creating constellations that followed down the curve of his spine and lightly dusted across his upturned butt. His body was lithe and thin, but strong looking. A light dusting of hair covered the man’s legs and forearms. Derek couldn’t see his chest or anything above the shoulders, except for a strip of skin where the collar had an opening on the left side—a place for _the mating bite_.

              He stopped directly in front of the boy’s face, annoyed that he couldn’t read his mate’s expression, but also not being able to resist finding his mate’s opened mouth arousing. Spit drooled out of the corners of his mouth, pooling down his leather covered chin. Derek thought it was probably humiliating, but he also found it oddly endearing and incredibly arousing. He crouched down so they were face to face.

              “Hello, my name is Derek. Derek Hale. I would like to ask you some questions, okay? Is it alright if I put my hands over your hands?” Derek asked the bound form in front of him. “Can you shake your head yes or no if that’s okay?” There was a stiff nod in affirmation. Derek breathed a sigh of relief, maybe they could do this. “I want you to squeeze my hand in your left hand for yes, and the hand in your right for no. If you don’t know or want me to rephrase the question or something, squeeze both hands, okay?”

 

The man squeezed left. _Yes._

              “They told me that…that I’m your mate,” Derek said feeling suddenly bashful and nervous. “Do…do you want a mate?” he asked.

 

There was a pause. Both hands squeezed. _I don’t know_.

 

              “That’s okay. We aren’t going to do anything without your permission, okay? Your heat has started, I can smell it, but it doesn’t seem very strong yet. Are you in pain?”

 

The right hand squeezed immediately followed by both. _No_ , but also _I don’t know._

 

              “Does that mean that you’re in a bit of pain, but it isn’t bad?” Derek asked.

 

The left hand squeezed immediately. _Yes._

 

              “I know that you don’t know if you want a mate…to be honest, I—well, I…fuck,” Derek tried to say. “I’m sorry, I’m not good at this…”

 

The man’s thumbs holding each of Derek’s hands began caressing him lightly, rubbing small circles on the back of Derek’s hands. It was oddly comforting.

 

              “I…I’ve been hurt before. It’s a long story, but…I just…I have reservations about mating too,” Derek finally got out.

 

The thumbs kept gently caressing him.

 

 

              “I really wish I could see your face. You smell amazing. Do…do I smell okay to you,” Derek asked hesitantly.

 

The left hand squeezed very hard. _YES_.

 

              Derek chuckled and sighed. “I wish we had time to get to know each other better. It shouldn’t be like this. I’m so sorry you’re in this position. You should…you should be given the chance to know me. I…I may not be what you want, but everyone keeps telling me that we’re running out of time. I…I know there was another wolf—I can smell him.” Derek took a deep breath. He had to say this next part. His wolf did NOT want to do this, but Derek needed to know. “If…if you want him, I’ll go. I don’t want to, but I’ll go, do—”, before Derek could even finish the man was squeezing his right hand very tightly. _NO._ “Okay, okay…do you want me?” Derek asked. He held his breath. He was terrified. Now that he’d met this man he didn’t think he could bear to lose him now. It wouldn’t be easy, but Derek _wanted_ him.

 

              The man stilled for a moment, Derek could smell anxiety. He started to rub the back of the man’s hands with his thumbs while he took a moment to gather his thoughts. The man hesitated. Derek held his breath. After a few moments, Derek felt a very light squeeze from the left… _yes_.

              Derek let out his breath with a woosh. He leaned his forehead against the man’s leather covered one. “Thank you,” he whispered. He kept rubbing the back of him mate’s hands as he outlined what they would need to do. “Your heat isn’t coming on fast enough and we need to get it going before whatever trouble shows up. Do you understand…that I’m going to need to knot you and bite you?” he asked gently.

 

Left hand squeezed. _Yes._

 

“To accelerate your heat we need to get my cum on your body…it would be best if it went inside of you…our best option is a blow job. I’m so sorry. I wish I could remove that gag—this isn’t how a first time should go. Is…is that okay?”

 

Left hand squeezed. _Yes_.

 

“We need to get started…I’m going to keep a hold of your right hand, okay? If you want me to stop, or if it’s too much squeeze my hand once. If you want more, squeeze twice, okay?”

 

Left hand squeezed. _Yes._

 

Derek stop up and began undoing his jeans. He felt guilty for how much he was looking forward to his. The first time shouldn’t be like this, but they didn’t have much choice. He pushed his pants down just enough to pull his cock out, it had remained erect since he entered the mating room—the smell emanating from the boy overpowering. He grabbed his mate’s right hand, and used his left to grip his heavy cock at the base, bringing it to rest on the ring of the gag, Derek’s precum leaking into the man’s mouth.

 

“I’m going to begin now. I’m going to feed you my cock. It’s fairly long and kind of thick. Make sure you squeeze my hand if it gets too much, okay?”

 

Two squeezes came from below. _More._

 

“Here it comes, you can just suckle the head if you want,” Derek said. He slid his cock through the ring gag and into the wet heat of his mate’s mouth. It was like pushing into hot butter. His mate’s tongue ran under Derek’s foreskin, collecting his precum before swirling across the head and dancing down the few inches of shaft Derek had already pushed through. He groaned loudly and could feel himself leaking a copious amount of precum into his mate’s mouth. The smell of the man’s slick permeated the air—Derek could just make out the shine of the leaking liquid from his mate’s hole. It was working, his heat was coming on strong.

              Derek remained still, giving the man time to suckle on his cock head and foreskin. His mate had about two inches in his mouth with about seven inches more to go. He wouldn’t be getting his entire dick into the man’s mouth today, but if his mate wanted them to continue forward, perhaps that was something they could work up to. The younger man clearly loved having something in his mouth, if the enthusiasm of his tongue was anything to judge by.

              Derek took his hand not holding the man’s and placed it on the back of the man’s head, trying to caress the back of his mate’s neck through the level and give him something to help ground him. Derek heard the man groan and felt his hand squeezed twice.

              “You want more, huh? Yeah?” Derek slid his dick further into the man’s mouth a few more inches, pausing so as to not choke his mate. As Derek slowed, his had was squeezed again twice. _More._ Derek experimented carefully. We wouldn’t even attempt all nine inches, but he lightly started thrusting his hips, moving the first six inches of his cock slowly in and out of his mate’s mouth, his hand at the back of the man’s head held him firmly in place. A mix of drool and precum leaked out around the gag, smoothing the way for Derek’s thrusts, and making his mate sloopy. It was one of the most beautiful things Derek had ever seen.

              “You like that, don’t you boy?” Derek said in his Alpha voice. He heard the boy moan around his cock, hitting the back of his mouth with each slow thrust of his hips. The smell of his mate’s slick and oncoming heat was pushing Derek closer and closer to a rut. His boy was smelling stronger and stronger of _omega_.  “Fuck boy, your mouth feels so good around my cock. Does it feel good inside your mouth? Do you like the weight of it on your tongue?” The man squeezed his hand twice— _more—_ Derek relaxed a bit more. He’d been a little nervous letting his inner Alpha out, but so far his mate hadn’t asked him to stop or slow down. Derek began thrusting a little faster, still keeping the last few inches from entering his mate’s mouth—that would also prevent his knot from enlarging. He just needed to cum in his mouth, not overwhelm him with a copious amount of werewolf cum.

              “Are you going to be a good boy for me and swallow my cum?” Derek asked—his Alpha voice nearly making the question sound like a command. The boy moaned loudly around Derek’s dick. He strained his neck forward, trying to take more, but the bindings of the bench restricted his movement too much. Derek withdrew his cock so just the tip was in the man’s mouth. “Is this what you want,” he teased. “Do you want my cock in your mouth?” The boy whined around the head of Derek’s cock.

“Kiss the tip of my cock with your tongue. Show it how much you want it in your mouth.”

              The boys tongue enthusiastically ran around the underside of Derek’s erection—he teased the underside of where the head flared out beneath the foreskin, bringing a groan out of Derek’s mouth. “That’s a good boy, baby.” He thrust deeply to the back of the boy’s mouth then withdrew again. “You feel so good baby. So sloppy for my dick.” Derek fully withdrew from the omega’s mouth watching as spit and precum gushed out over his mate’s chin and down onto the floor.

              “I’m going to feed you your Alpha’s cock, omega.” Derek said authoritatively. His hand at the back of the omega’s neck was firm and unyielding. “You’re going to use that sweet tongue to rub the underside of my dick. I’m going to go faster and you’re going to take it. Do you understand, omega?” the Alpha asked. The wolf was coming out more and more—Derek’s eyes bled crimson and his face had shifted partially.

              The boy below him squeezed Derek’s hand twice and made a gurgling moan through the hole of the gag. “Good omega. Just take it and you’ll get your Alpha’s seed.” Derek lined up his dick with the gag again, and in one thrust pushed his cock deep into his mate’s mouth, going a little bit deeper—just enough to begin pushing into the opening of his mate’s throat, but no deeper. The boy didn’t stop groaning—his tongue running along the underside of Derek’s throbbing erection as it slid in and out of his mouth, faster, and faster. He was far enough into his mate’s mouth now, that Derek’s swinging balls began slapping the omega’s chin making a splashing thump, thump, thump as it spread around the drool and precum leaking from his mouth.  The smell of sex and _them_ filled the air. It felt so right to Derek, his wolf howling in satisfaction. He could feel his orgasm building in his balls.

              “That’s it. Good omega. Good boy. You’re being so good for me, taking my dick. So fucking beautiful.” Derek couldn’t stop watching his cock disappear into his mate’s mouth, coming out shiny with spit before thrusting back in. “Good omegas get their Alpha’s cum, boy. You’ve been so good for me, are you ready for my cum?”, Derek asked. “I’m going to mark you. Everyone will know that you’re mine, omega.” The man groaned and whined. Derek was fully lost to the rut now. He could think of nothing else, but cumming in his mate’s mouth and then mounting him and finally claiming the omega as _his._

              “I’m going to cum omega. Swallow your Alpha’s cum. I’m going to cum now!” Derek shouted, his hips losing their rhythm his cock pushing into the omega’s mouth so that the cock head rested at the back of his mouth. He stilled and shot his cum right into the omega’s throat. The cum rushed out of Derek’s throbbing shaft and quickly filled the boy’s throat, some of it gushing around Derek’s dick, giving the man’s tongue a taste of his Alpha’s cum. Derek’s orgasm went on for nearly thirty seconds—rope after rope of Alpha cum filling the omega’s mouth. It soaked into skin and muscles of his mouth and throat—driving his heat to the surface. A steady stream of slick was leaking from the omega’s hole, his thighs soaking up the sweet liquid.

              “Good boy. Such a good omega for me. I can smell your heat, baby. Your body knew it needed to get ready for me. I need to let go of your hand now, sweetheart so I can mount your pretty hole. Would you like that my omega? Do you want me to taste your greedy hole and give it my knot?” Derek asked. His orgasm had been amazing and quite satisfying, but his cock was already filling with blood again ready for a second round. He was just holding on to his rational mind at this point, not wanting to fully embrace the rut until he entered the omega.

              Derek extracted his hand from the omega’s grip and walked around to the breeding bench, where his mate’s perk ass presented in the air. His hole glistened and delicious sweet smelling slick trickled down his thighs. “Oh baby,” Derek groaned. He reached out a finger to the hole and watched as the man’s body sucked it into his body, devouring the finger in its desperation to be filled. The omega whined through the ringed gag. “You need it don’t you omega? I’ll give it to you, baby. You’ve been so good. So patient.” Derek leaned forward and pushed the man’s cheeks apart to have better access to his hole.

              “Your hole is so pretty baby. So pink and tight. I’m going to eat you out omega. Let your Alpha in to taste you. Just relax your body baby. Relax and open your sweet hole.” Derek sank is face to his mate’s hole and just breathed in the intoxicating smell of his mate in heat. The man was making the most delicious noises as Derek’s tongue plunged into the depths of his hole, tasting him and dragging out more and more slick. Derek was in heaven, but he needed _more._ After taking his fill of his mate’s taste for the moment, he stood and grasped his mate’s ass spreading it open, lining himself up with the pink hole.

             

“I am going to take you now, omega. I claim you and this body as _mine_. I will protect, cherish, and serve you as your Alpha. You. Are. _Mine_.” And with that, Derek thrust his shaft into the boy’s hole.

 

…*…

 

Stiles hadn’t known it would be like this. Nothing could have prepared him for the intensity of the smells and feelings he had experienced since Derek had walked into the mating room. The small scrap of black leather Stiles had smelled yesterday was _nothing_ compared to the real thing. Stiles had been nervous around the wolf, he had felt the intensity of his gaze as soon as he entered the room, but after their conversation Stiles felt more at ease. He still wasn’t fully onboard, but Derek made him feel safe and protected.

              The blow job had been amazing. Once Derek had begun talking to him through the process, describing what he was doing to Stiles’s body, it had really pushed Stiles’s buttons in just the right way. The more precum Stiles’s had swallowed, the more difficult it became to stay focused. All he wanted to do was give in to the heat of his body and sink into that hot, wet pleasure with Derek. When Derek shot is load into Stiles’s mouth, it had become impossible not to give in to his body’s urgent demands. Stiles’s felt Derek’s hard, hot length thrust into his body over and over.

              His werewolf mate speared his hole, forcing it open to his cock, at various speeds. First there was the fast, desperate thrusts Derek had done while opening getting Stiles’s used to his length and girth. He had followed those by slow, agonizing drags of his thick cock over Stiles’s prostate—making sure the angle of his thrusts hit every time. Locked in the cock cage, Stiles could not get hard and the build up of his sexual energy was becoming too much. He needed _release_ desperately.

              The heat addled his mind. Everything in the world became narrowed down to his hole and Derek’s cock thrusting in, opening the way for his knot, and the promise of Alpha cum. Stiles knew Derek was still talking to him, telling him things, but he couldn’t make out the words—too far gone into the heat for anything other than Derek’s cock inside his tight channel. He felt the thrusts increase, causing him to babble incoherently, the noises coming from his mouth making no sense through the gag other than his blissed out state. Stiles could feel Derek’s knot beginning to stretch his hole as it went in and out, in and out. He desperately wanted, no _needed_ that inside of him. Instinctively, he knew it was the only thing that would quench the burning heat. He kept trying to squeeze down on the knot with his hole, keeping it in place, but it kept slipping away from him.

              With one final thrust, Stiles felt the knot expand and lock into place followed by the wet heat of Derek filling his ass with cum. He was aware of Derek’s groans and the sounds of his mate as he found pleasure in his body. Next came a sharp stinging pain at the side of his neck as Derek sank his teeth in. The bite soon became pleasurable as Derek kept his teeth locked down into Stiles’s neck while rocking his knot back and forth against his prostate. The pain and pleasure of the bite and the building pressure on his prostate forced a trickle of cum out of Stiles’s locked cage. Had Stiles’s not been wearing the leather hood, Derek may have noticed that Stiles’s eyes had begun glowing a deep grey tinged with lavender after the bite was completed and remained that way until Stiles’s, exhausted, fell asleep to the pulsing of Derek’s knot filling him up.

 

When Stiles woke he was no longer on the breeding bench. The hood and gag were gone and someone had taken the time to clean him up a bit. Stiles’s hoped that it was the same someone who he was currently cuddled into their lap, head resting against their hairy chest.

              Stiles blinked awake and looked into the face of his mate. He was stunning. Hazel eyes flicked with green and gold that still held the tinge of Alpha crimson along the edges met his gaze. In that moment, Stiles wanted nothing more than to stay in the safety of those arms and swim in those eyes for the rest of forever. Not to mention the muscular biceps he was currently resting against.

              Stiles blushed furiously as the events of the day came coming back to him. “Ummm…hello,” Stiles said. Hiding his face in Derek’s chest hair. He was too embarrassed to keep looking into his face.

              Derek chuckled and rubbed his cheek against Stiles’s neck, he squeezed Stiles’s body tightly too him and hummed softly. “Hello,” Derek said, rubbing a hand up and down Stiles’s back hoping to offer the smaller man comfort. With his other hand, he tilted Stiles’s head up gently to look at him. “What is your name, baby?”, he asked—only a tinge embarrassed from mating the man without knowing.

              The boy blinked owlishly. His eyes, a deep amber honey color that reminded Derek of his favorite werewolf whiskey, looked back at him. “I’m Stiles,” the man in his arm said.

              “Stiles.” Derek tested the name on his tongue. He liked it. It suited the man. “Stiles, may I kiss you?”

              Stiles’s breath caught in his throat at the intensity of the wolf’s gaze. Could the man kiss him? What kind of question was that? Stiles could only nod in response, still feeling a bit dazed. As Derek pressed his lips to Stiles’s mouth, he moaned into the touch, throwing his arms around Derek’s neck. He wanted the kiss to last forever.

 

              So of course, that would be the moment that the door to the mating room burst open. A furious Deucalion prowling into the room, eyes red and claws extended. Behind him an angry man in a white doctor’s coat glared and a worried Scott and Melissa peaked over the doctor’s shoulder. _Shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Let me know what you think in the comments!


End file.
